FRIENDSHIP    VILLAGE 
LOVE   STORIES 


BY 

ZONA   GALE 

AUTHOR    OF   "FRIENDSHIP    VILLAGE,"    "THE    LOVES 
OF    PELLEAS    AND    ETARRE,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1909, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  1909.    Reprinted 
November,  1909  ;  April,  1912. 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


UO 

MY  FRIENDS  IN    PORTAGE 
WISCONSIN 


248987 


CERTAIN  of  the  following  chapters  have  appeared 
in  Everybody's,  The  American  Magazine,  The  Out- 
look, The  Woman's  Home  Companion,  and  The 
Delineator.  Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  for  their 
courteous  permission  to  reprint  these  chapters,  and 
to  Messrs.  Harper  Brothers  for  permission  to  re- 
print the  sonnet  in  Chapter  XL 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  OPEN  ARMS           ......          I 

II.     INSIDE  JUNE 15 

III.  MIGGY 33 

IV.  SPLENDOUR  TOWN  .....       43 
^  V.     DIFFERENT 62 

VI.  THE  FOND  FORENOON     .                    .          .          .81 

VII.     AFRAID 96 

VIII.  THE  JAVA  ENTERTAINMENT       .          .          .          .116 

IX.  THE  COLD  SHOULDER      .          .          .          .          .136 

X.  EVENING  DRESS      .          .          .          .          .          .148 

XI.  UNDERN        .          .          .          .          .          .          .176 

XII.  THE  WAY  THE  WORLD  Is       .          .          .          .191 

XIII.  HOUSEHOLDRY  ......        2C>6 

XIV.  POSTMARKS    .          .          .          .          .          .          .223 

XV.     PETER 248 

XVI.     THE  NEW  VILLAGE 258 

XVII.  ADOPTION     .          .          .          .          ...          .274 

XVIII.     AT  PETER'S  HOUSE 293 

XIX.  THE  CUSTODIAN     .          .          ,          ,          .          .     309 


Friendship  Village  Love  Stories 


OPEN  ARMS 

ALTHOUGH  it  is  June,  the  Little  Child  about  whom 
I  shall  sometimes  write  in  these  pages  this  morning 
brought  me  a  few  violets.  June  violets.  They 
sound  unconvincing  and  even  sentimental.  How- 
ever, here  they  are  in  their  vase ;  and  they  are  all 
white  but  one. 

"  Only  one  blue  one,"  said  Little  Child,  regret- 
fully; "  May  must  be  'most  dead  by  mistake." 

"  Don't  the  months  die  as  soon  as  they  go  away?  " 
I  asked  her,  and  a  little  shocked  line  troubled  her 
forehead. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said;  "they  never  die  at  all. 
They  wait  and  show  the  next  months  how." 

So  this  year's  May  is  showing  June  how.  As  if 
one  should  have  a  kind  of  pre-self,  who  kept  on, 
after  one's  birth,  and  told  one  what  to  live  and  what 
not  to  live.  I  wish  that  I  had  had  a  pre-self  and 
that  it  had  kept  on  with  me  to  show  me  how.  It  is 
what  one's  mother  is,  only  one  is  so  occupied  in 


2.  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

being  one's  born  self  that  one  thinks  of  her  worship- 
fully  as  one's  mother  instead.  But  this  young  June 
seems  to  be  chiefly  May,  and  I  am  glad :  for  of  all 
the  months,  May  is  to  me  most  nearly  the  essence 
of  time  to  be.  In  May  I  have  always  an  impulse 
to  date  my  letters  "  To-morrow,"  for  all  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  usual  future  seems  come  upon  me.  The 
other  months  are  richly  themselves,  but  May  is  all 
the  great  premonitory  zest  come  true;  it  is  expecta- 
tion come  alive;  it  is  the  Then  made  Now.  Con- 
servatively, however,  I  date  my  May  letters  merely 
"  To-morrow,"  and  it  is  pleasant  to  find  a  conserva- 
tive estimate  which  no  one  is  likely  to  exceed.  For 
I  own  that  though  there  is  a  conservatism  which  is 
now  wholly  forbidden  to  me,  yet  I  continue  to  take 
in  it  a  sensuous,  stolen  pleasure,  such  as  I  take  in 
certain  ceremonies;  and  I  know  that  if  I  were  wholly 
pagan,  extreme  conservatism  would  be  my  chief 
indulgence. 

This  yet-May  morning,  then,  I  have  been  down 
in  the  village,  gardening  about  the  streets.  My  sort 
of  gardening.  As  in  spring  another  looks  along  the 
wall  for  her  risen  phlox  and  valley-lilies,  or  for  the 
upthrust  of  the  annuals,  so  after  my  year's  absence 
I  peered  round  this  wall  and  that  for  faces  and  things 
in  the  renascence  of  recognition,  or  in  the  pleasant 
importance  of  having  just  been  born.  Many  a  gate 
and  fa9ade  and  well-house,  of  which  in  my  absence  I 


OPEN   ARMS  3 

have  not  thought  even  once,  has  not  changed  a  whit 
in  consequence.  And  when  changes  have  come,  they 
have  done  so  with  the  prettiest  preening  air  of  accom- 
plishment: "We  too,"  they  say,  "have  not  been 
idle." 

Thus  the  streets  came  unrolling  to  meet  me  and 
to  show  me  their  treasures :  my  neighbour's  new 
screened-in  porch  "  with  a  round  extension  so  to  see 
folks  pass  on  the  cross  street "  ;  in  the  house  in 
which  I  am  to  live  a  former  blank  parlour  wall  gravely 
regarding  me  with  a  magnificent  new  plate  glass  eye; 
Daphne  Street,  hitherto  a  way  of  sand,  now  be- 
come a  thing  of  proud  macadam  ;  the  corner  catalpas 
old  enough  to  bloom ;  a  white  frame  cottage  rising 
like  a  domestic  Venus  from  a  once  vacant  lot  of 
fo^m-green  "  Timothy  ";  a  veranda  window-box  ac- 
quired, like  a  bright  bow-knot  at  its  house's  throat; 
and,  farther  on,  the  Herons'  freshly  laid  cement  side- 
walk, a  flying  heron  stamped  on  every  block.  I 
fancy  they  will  have  done  that  with  the  wooden 
heron  knocker  which  in  the  kitchen  their  grandfather 
Heron  himself  carved  on  sleepless  nights.  ("  Six 
hundred  and  twenty  hours  of  Grandpa  Heron's  life 
hanging  on  our  front  door,"  his  son's  wife  said;  "  I 
declare  I  feel  like  that  bird  could  just  abqpt  lay.") 
To  see  all  these  venturesome  innovations,  these  ob- 
scure and  pleasant  substitutions,  is  to  be  greeted  by 
the  very  annuals  of  this  little  garden  as  a  real  gar- 


4  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

dener  in  green  lore  might  be  signalled,  here  by  a 
trembling  of  new  purple  and  there  by  a  yellow 
marching  line  of  little  volunteers. 

I  do  not  miss  from  their  places  many  friends.  In 
this  house  and  that  I  find  a  new  family  domiciled 
and  to  be  divined  by  the  subtle  changes  which  no 
old  tenant  would  ever  have  made:  the  woodpile 
in  an  unaccustomed  place,  the  side  shed  door  dis- 
used and  strung  for  vines,  a  wagon  now  kept  by  a 
north  and  south  space  once  sacred  to  the  sweet-pea 
trench.  Here  a  building  partly  ruined  by  fire  shows 
grim,  returned  to  the  inarticulate,  not  evidently  to 
be  rebuilt,  but  to  be  accepted,  like  any  death.  But 
these  variations  are  the  exception,  and  only  one  vari- 
ation is  the  rule,  and  against  that  one  I  have  in  me 
some  special  heritage  of  burning.  I  mean  the  felling 
of  the  village  trees.  We  have  been  used  wantonly 
to  sacrifice  to  the  base  and  the  trivial,  trees  already 
stored  with  years  of  symmetry  when  we  of  these 
Midlands  were  the  intruders  and  not  they  —  and  I 
own  that  for  me  the  time  has  never  wholly  passed. 
They  disturb  the  bricks  in  our  walks,  they  dishevel 
our  lawns  with  twigs,  they  rot  the  shingles  on  our 
barns.  It  has  seemed  to  occur  to  almost  nobody 
to  pull  down  his  barn  instead.  But  of  late  we,  too, 
are  beginning  to  discern^  so  that  when  in  the  laying 
of  a  sidewalk  we  meet  a  tree  who  was  there  before 
we  were  anywhere  at  all,  though  we  may  not  yet 


OPEN   ARMS  5 

recognize  the  hamadryad,  we  do  sacrifice  to  her  our 
love  of  a  straight  line,  and  our  votive  offering  is  to 
give  the  tree  the  walk  —  such  a  slight  swerving  is 
all  the  deference  she  asks !  —  and  in  return  she 
blesses  us  with  balms  and  odours.  .  .  .  For  me 
these  signs  of  our  mellowing  are  more  delightful  to 
experience  than  might  be  the  already-made  quietudes 
of  a  nation  of  effected  and  distinguished  standards. 
I  have  even  been  pleased  when  we  permit  ourselves 
an  elemental  gesture,  though  I  personally  would 
prefer  not  to  be  the  one  to  have  made  the  gesture. 
And  this  is  my  solace  when  with  some  inquisitioner 
I  unsuccessfully  intercede  for  a  friend  of  mine — an 
isolated  silver  cottonwood,  or  a  royally  skirted  hem- 
lock :  verily,  I  say,  it  was  so  that  we  did  here  in 
the  old  days  when  there  were  forests  to  conquer, 
and  this  good  inquisitioner  has  tree-taking  in  his 
blood  as  he  has  his  genius  for  toil.  And  I  try  not 
to  remember  that  if  in  America  we  had  had  plane 
trees,  we  should  almost  certainly  have  cutthem  into 
cabins.  .  .  .  But  this  morning  even  the  trees  that 
I  missed  could  not  make  me  sad.  No,  nor  even 
the  white  crape  and  the  bunch  of  garden  flowers 
hanging  on  a  street  door  which  I  passed.  All  these 
were  as  if  something  elementary  had  happened,  need- 
less wounds,  it  might  be,  on  the  plan  of  things,  con- 
tortions which  science  has  not  yet  bred  away,  but, 
as  truly  as  the  natural  death  from  age,  eloquent  of 


6  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

the  cosmic  persuading  to  shape  in  which  the  nations 
of  quietude  and  we  of  strivings  are  all  in  fellowship. 

In  fellowship  !  I  think  that  in  this  simple  basic 
emotion  lies  my  joy  in  living  in  this,  my  village. 
Here,  this  year  long,  folk  have  been  adventuring  to- 
gether, knowing  the  details  of  one  another's  lives, 
striving  a  little  but  companioning  far  more  than  striv- 
ing, kindling  to  one  another's  interests  instead  of 
practising  the  faint  morality  of  mere  civility ;  and  I 
love  them  all  —  unless  it  be  only  that  little  Mrs. 
Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson,  newly  come  to  Friendship  ; 
and  perhaps  my  faint  liking  for  her  arises  from  the 
fact  that  she  has  not  yet  lived  here  long  enough  to  be 
understood,  as  Friendship  Village  understands.  The 
ways  of  these  primal  tribal  bonds  are  in  my  blood,  for 
from  my  heart  I  felt  what  my  neighbour  felt  when  she 
told  me  of  the  donation  party  which  the  whole  village 
has  just  given  to  Lyddy  Ember :  — 

"  I  declare,"  she  said,  c<  it  wasn't  so  much  the 
stuff  they  brought  in,  though  that  was  all  elegant, 
but  it  was  the  Togetherness  of  it.  I  couldn't  get  to 
sleep  that  night  for  thinkin'  about  God  not  havin' 
anybody  to  neighbour  with." 

It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  when  in  the 
middle  of  Daphne  Street  my  neighbour  met  me  this 
morning,  for  the  first  time  since  my  return,  and  held 
out  her  arms,  I  walked  straight  into  them.  Here 
is  the  secret,  as  more  of  us  know  than  have  the 


OPEN   ARMS  7 

wisdom  to  acknowledge :  fellowship,  comradeship, 
kinship  —  call  it  what  you  will.  My  neighbour  and 
I  will  understand. 

"  I  heard  you  was  here,"  my  neighbour  said  — 
bless  her,  her  voice  trembled.  I  suppose  there 
never  was  such  a  compliment  as  that  tremor  of  her 
voice. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  going  to  tell  what  else 
she  said.  But  it  was  all  about  our  coming  to 
Friendship  Village  to  live ;  and  that  is  a  thing 
which,  as  I  feel  about  it,  should  be  set  to  music  and 
sung  in  the  wind  —  where  Thoreau  said  that  some 
apples  are  to  be  eaten.  As  for  me,  I  nodded  at  my 
neighbour,  and  could  do  no  more  than  that  —  as  is 
the  custom  of  mortals  when  they  are  face  to  face 
with  these  sorceries  of  Return  and  Meeting  and 
Being  Together. 

I  am  not  yet  wonted  to  the  sweetness  of  our  com- 
ing to  Friendship  Village  to  live,  the  Stranger  and 
I.  Here  they  still  call  him  the  Stranger  ;  and  this 
summer,  because  of  the  busts  and  tablets  which  he 
must  fashion  in  many  far  places,  so  do  I.  Have  I 
said  that  that  Stranger  of  mine  is  a  sculptor  ?  He  is. 
But  if  anyone  expects  me  to  write  about  him,  I  tell 
you  that  it  is  impossible.  Save  this :  That  since 
he  came  out  of  the  mist  one  morning  on  the  Plank 
Road  here  in  Friendship  Village,  we  two  have  kept 
house  in  the  world,  shared  in  the  common  welfare, 


8  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

toiled  as  we  might  for  the  common  good,  observed 
the  stars,  and  thanked  God.  And  this  :  that  since 
that  morning,  it  is  as  if  Someone  had  picked  us  up 
and  set  us  to  music  and  sung  us  to  the  universal 
piping.  And  we  remember  that  once  we  were  only 
words,  and  that  sometime  we  shall  be  whatever 
music  is  when  it  is  free  of  its  body  of  sound,  and  for 
that  time  we  strive.  But  I  repeat  that  these  vagrant 
notes  are  not  about  this  great  Stranger,  absent  on 
his  quests  of  holy  soul  prisoned  in  this  stone  and 
that  marble,  nor  yet  about  our  life  together.  Rather, 
I  write  about  our  Family,  which  is  this  loved  town 
of  ours.  For  we  have  bought  Oldmoxon  House, 
and  here,  save  for  what  flights  may  be  about  and 
over-seas,  we  hope  that  we  may  tell  our  days  to 
their  end. 

My  neighbour  had  both  my  hands,  there  in  the 
middle  of  Daphne  Street,  and  the  white  horse  of  the 
post-office  store  delivery  wagon  turned  out  for  us  as 
if  he  knew. 

"  If  I'd  thought  of  seeing  you  out  so  early  I'd 
have  put  on  my  other  hat,"  my  neighbour  said,  "  but 
I'm  doing  up  berries,  an'  I  just  run  down  for  some 
rubbers  for  my  cans.  Land,  fruit-jar  rubbers  ain't 
what  they  used  to  be,  are  they  ?  One  season  an' 
they  lay  down  life.  I  could  jounce  up  an7  down  I'm 
so  glad  to  see  you.  I  heard  you'd  been  disappointed 
gettin'  somebody  to  help  you  with  your  writin'. 


OPEN   ARMS 


I  heard  the  girl  that  was  comin'  to  help  you  ain't 


comin'  near." 


My  secretary,  it  is  true,  has  disappointed  me,  and 
she  has  done  the  disappointing  by  telegraph.  I  had 
almost  said,  publicly  by  telegraph.  But  I  protest 
that  I  would  rather  an  entire  village  should  read  my 
telegrams  and  rush  to  the  rescue,  than  that  a  whole 
city  should  care  almost  nothing  for  me  or  my  tele- 
grams either.  And  if  you  please,  I  would  rather 
not  have  that  telegram-reading  criticised. 

"Well,"  said  my  neighbour,  with  simplicity, 
"  I've  got  you  one.  She'll  be  up  to  talk^to  you  in  a 
day  or  two  —  I  saw  to  that.  It's  Miggy.  She  can 
spell  like  the  minister." 

I  had  never  heard  of  Miggy,  but  I  repeated  her 
name  with  something  of  that  sense  of  the  inescapable 
to  which  the  finality  of  my  neighbour  impressed  me. 
As  if  I  were  to  have  said,  "  So,  then,  it  is  to  be 
Miggy  !  "  Or  was  it  something  more  than  that  ? 
Perhaps  it  was  that  Miggy's  hour  and  mine  had 
struck.  At  all  events,  I  distinctly  felt  what  I  have 
come  to  call  the  emotion  of  finality.  I  suppose  that 
other  people  have  it :  that  occasional  prophetic 
sense  which,  when  a  thing  is  to  happen,  expresses 
this  futurity  not  by  words,  but  by  a  consciousness 
of — shall  I  say?  —  brightness;  a  mental  area  of 
clearness  ;  a  quite  definite  physical  emotion  of  yes- 
ness.  But  if  the  thing  will  not  happen  this  says 


io         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

itself  by  a  complementary  apprehension  of  dim, 
down-sloping,  vacant  negation.  I  have  seldom 
known  this  divination  to  fail  me  —  though  I  am 
chary  of  using  it  lest  I  use  it  up  !  And  then  I  do 
not  always  wish  to  know.  But  this  morning  my 
emotion  of  finality  prevailed  upon  me  unaware  :  I 
knew  that  it  would  be  Miggy. 

"  What  a  curious  name,"  I  said,  in  a  manner  of 
feebly  fending  off  the  imminent;  "  why  Miggy?" 
For  it  seemed  to  me  one  of  those  names  instead  of 
which  any  other  name  would  have  done  as  well  and 
perhaps  better. 

"  Her  name  is  Margaret,"  my  neighbour  explained, 
cc  and  her  mother  was  a  real  lady  that  come  here  from 
Off  and  that  hard  work  killed  her  because  she  was 
a  lady.  The  father  was  bound  there  shouldn't  be 
any  lady  about  Miggy,  but  he  couldn't  seem  to 
help  himself.  Margaret  was  her  mother's  name 
and  so  he  shaved  it  and  shrunk  it  and  strained  it 
down  to  Miggy.  £  No  frills  for  nobody,'  was  his 
motto,  up  to  his  death.  Miggy  and  her  little 
sister  lives  with  her  old  Aunt  Effie  that  dress- 
makes  real  French  but  not  enough  to  keep  'em 
alive  on.  Miggy  does  odd  jobs  around.  So 
when  I  heard  about  your  needin'  somebody,  I 
says  to  myself,  c  Miggy  !' — just  like  I've  said  it 
to  you." 

It  was  not  the  name,  as  a  name,  which  I  would 


OPEN   ARMS  ii 

have  said  could  be  uppermost  in  my  mind  as  I 
walked  on  that  street  of  June  —  that  May  was  help- 
ing to  make  fair.  And  I  was  annoyed  to  have  the 
peace  of  my  return  so  soon  invaded.  I  fell  wonder- 
ing if  I  could  not  get  on,  as  I  usually  do,  with  no 
one  to  bother.  I  have  never  wanted  a  helper  at  all 
if  I  could  avoid  it,  and  I  have  never,  never  wanted  a 
helper  with  a  personality.  A  personality  among  my 
strewn  papers  puts  me  in  a  fever  of  embarrassment 
and  misery.  Once  such  an  one  said  to  me  in  the 
midst  of  a  chapter:  "Madame,  I'd  like  to  ask  you 
a  question.  What  do  you  think  of  your  hero  ? " 
In  an  utter  rout  of  confusion  I  owned  that  I 
thought  very  badly  of  him,  indeed ;  but  I  did  not  add 
the  truth,  that  she  had  effectually  drugged  him  and 
disabled  me  for  at  least  that  day.  My  taste  in 
helpers  is  for  one  colourless,  noiseless,  above  all  in- 
tonationless,  usually  speechless,  and  always  without 
curiosity  —  some  one,  save  for  the  tips  of  her  trained 
fingers,  negligible.  As  all  this  does  sad  violence  to 
my  democratic  passions,  I  usually  prefer  my  negligi- 
ble self.  So  the  idea  of  a  Miggy  terrified  me,  and 
I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  not  have  one  about. 
As  I  knew  the  village,  she  was  not  of  it.  She  was 
not  a  part  of  my  gardening.  She  was  no  proper 
annual.  She  was  no  doubt  merely  a  showy  little 
seedling,  chance  sown  in  the  village.  .  .  .  But  all 
the  time,  moving  within  me,  was  that  serene  area  of 


iz          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

brightness,  that  clear  certainty  that,  do  what  I  could, 
it  would  still  be  Miggy. 

...  It  is  through  this  faint  soothsaying,  this  con- 
ception which  is  partly  of  sight  and  partly  of  feeling, 
that  some  understanding  may  be  won  of  the  orches- 
tration of  the  senses.  I  am  always  telling  myself 
that  if  I  could  touch  at  that  fluent  line  where  the 
senses  merge,  I  should  occasionally  find  there  that 
silent  Custodian  who  is  myself.  I  think,  because 
emotion  is  so  noble,  that  the  Custodian  must  some- 
times visit  this  line  where  the  barrier  between  her 
and  me  is  so  frail.  Her  presence  seems  possible 
to  me  only  for  a  moment,  only,  it  may  be,  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second  in  which  I  catch  the  romance, 
the  idea  of  something  old  and  long  familiar.  And 
when  this  happens,  I  say :  She  has  just  been  there, 
between  the  seeing  and  the  feeling,  or  between  the 
seeing  and  the  knowing.  Often  I  am  sure  that  I 
have  barely  missed  her.  But  I  am  never  quick 
enough  to  let  her  know.  .  .  . 

When  I  finished  my  walk  and  stepped  under  the 
poplars  before  my  gate,  I  caught  a  faint  exclamation. 
It  was  that  Little  Child,  who  had  been  waiting  for 
me  on  my  doorstep  and  came  running  to  meet  me 
and  bring  me  the  violets.  When  she  saw  me,  she 
said,  "  Oh  !  "  quickly  and  sweetly  in  her  throat,  and, 
as  I  stood  still  to  taste  the  delight  of  having  her  run 
toward  me,  I  felt  very  sorry  for  every  one  who  has 


OPEN   ARMS  13 

not  heard  that  involuntary  "  Oh  ! "  of  a  child  at 
one's  coming.  Little  Child  and  I  have  met  only 
once  before,  and  that  early  this  morning,  at  large,  on 
the  village  street,  as  spirits  met  in  air,  with  no  back- 
ground of  names  nor  auxiliary  of  exchange  of  names  ; 
but  we  had  some  talk  which  for  me  touched  on 
eternal  truth  and  for  her  savoured  of  story-telling ; 
and  w,e  are  friends.  So  now  when  she  gave  me  the 
violets  and  explained  to  me  Who  was  showing  June 
how,  I  accepted  this  fair  perception  of  the  mother- 
hood of  May,  this  childish  discernment  of  the 
familyhood  of  things,  and, 

"  Will  you  come  some  day  soon  to  have  another 
story  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"Prob'ly  I  can,"  said  Little  Child.  "I'll  ask 
Miggy." 

"  Miggy !  But  is  it  your  Miggy,  too  ? "  I 
demanded. 

"  It's  my  sister,"  said  Little  Child,  nodding. 

I  thought  that  the  concreteness  of  her  reply  to 
my  ill-defined  query  was  almost  as  if  she  remem- 
bered how  to  understand  without  words.  You 
would  think  that  children  would  need  to  have  things 
said  out,  but  they  are  evidently  closer  to  a  more 
excellent  way. 

So  when  I  entered  the  house  just  now,  I  brought 
in  with  me  a  kind  of  premonitory  Miggy,  one  of 
those  ghostly,  anticipatory  births  which  we  are  con- 


14         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

stantly  giving  to  those  whom  we  have  not  met.  As 
if  every  one  had  for  us  a  way  of  life  without  the 
formality  of  being  seen.  As  if  we  are  a  big,  near 
family  whether  we  want  to  be  so  or  not.  Verily, 
it  is  not  only  May  and  June,  or  Little  Child  and 
Miggy,  who  are  found  unexpectedly  to  be  related ; 
it  is  the  whole  world,  it  seems,  and  he  is  wise  who 
quickens  to  many  kinships.  I  like  to  think  of  the 
comrade  company  that  already  I  have  found  here : 
June  and  Little  Child  and  Miggy-to-be  and  my 
neighbour  and  Daphne  Street  and  the  remembered 
faces  of  the  village  and  the  hamadryads.  I  think 
that  I  include  the  very  herons  in  the  cement  side- 
walk. Like  a  kind  of  perpetual  gift  it  is,  this  which 
my  neighbour  called  Togetherness. 


II 

INSIDE   JUNE 

THE  difficulty  with  a  June  day  is  that  you  can  never 
get  near  enough  to  it.  This  month  comes  within  few 
houses,  and  if  you  want  it  you  must  go  out  to  it. 
When  you  are  within  doors,  knowing  that  out-of- 
doors  it  is  June,  the  urge  to  be  out  there  with  it  is 
resistless.  But  though  you  wade  in  green,  steep  in 
sun,  breast  wind,  and  glory  in  them  all,  still  the  day 
itself  eludes  you.  It  would  seem,  in  June,  that  there 
should  be  a  specific  for  the  malady  of  being  oneself, 
so  that  one  might  get  to  be  a  June  day  outright. 
However,  if  one  were  oneself  more  and  more,  might 
not  one  finally  become  a  June  day?  .  .  . 

Or  something  of  this  sort.  I  am  quoting,  as 
nearly  as  may  be,  from  the  Book  of  Our  Youth, 
your  youth  and  mine.  Always  the  Book  of  Youth 
will  open  at  a  page  like  this.  And  occasionally  it 
is  as  if  we  turned  back  and  read  there  and  made  a 
path  right  away  through  the  page. 

This  morning  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  wakened  me, 
singing  on  a  bough  of  box-elder  so  close  to  my  window 

15 


1 6          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

that  the  splash  of  rose  on  his  throat  almost  startled 
me.  It  was  as  if  I  ought  not  to  have  been  looking. 
And  to  turn  away  from  out-of-doors  was  like  leav- 
ing some  one  who  was  saying  something.  But  as 
soon  as  I  stepped  into  the  day  I  perceived  my  old 
problem  :  The  difficulty  with  a  June  day  is  that  you 
can  never  get  near  enough. 

I  stood  for  a  little  at  the  front  gate  trying  soberly 
to  solve  the  matter  —  or  I  stood  where  the  front 
gate  should  have  been  ;  for  in  our  midland  Ameri- 
can villages  we  have  few  fences  or  hedges,  and,  alas, 
no  stone  walls.  Though  undoubtedly  this  lack 
comes  from  an  insufficient  regard  for  privacy,  yet 
this  negative  factor  I  am  inclined  to  condone  for 
the  sake  of  the  positive  motive.  And  this  I  con- 
ceive to  be  that  we  are  wistful  of  more  ample  occu- 
pation than  is  commonly  contrived  by  our  fifty-feet 
village  lots,  and  so  we  royally  add  to  our  "  yards  " 
the  sidewalk  and  the  planting  space  and  the  road 
and  as  much  of  our  neighbour's  lawn  as  our  imagi- 
nation can  annex.  There  seems  to  me  to  be  in  this 
a  certain  charming  pathos  ;  as  it  were,  a  survival  in 
us  of  the  time  when  we  had  only  to  name  broad 
lands  our  own  and  to  stay  upon  them  in  order  to 
make  them  ours  in  very  fact.  And  now  it  is  as  if 
this  serene  pushing  back  of  imaginary  borders  were 
in  reality  an  appending,  a  kind  of  spiritual  taking 
up  of  a  claim. 


INSIDE  JUNE  17 

How  to  get  nearer  to  June  ?  I  admit  that  it  is  a 
question  of  the  veriest  idler.  But  what  a  delightful 
company  of  these  questions  one  can  assemble.  As, 
How  to  find  one's  way  to  a  place  that  is  the  way 
it  seems  Away  Across  a  Meadow.  How  to  meet 
enough  people  who  hear  what  one  says  in  just  the 
way  that  one  means  it.  How  to  get  back  at  will 
those  fugitive  moments  when  one  almost  knows  .  .  . 
what  it  is  all  about.  And  with  this  question  the 
field  of  the  idler  becomes  the  field  of  the  wise  man ; 
and,  indeed,  if  one  idles  properly  —  or  rather,  if  the 
proper  person  idles  —  the  two  fields  are  not  always 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  road.  To  idle  is  by  no 
means  merely  to  do  nothing.  It  is  an  avocation, 
a  calling  away,  nay,  one  should  say,  a  piping  away. 
To  idle  is  to  inhibit  the  body  and  to  let  the  spirit 
keep  on.  Not  every  one  can  idle.  I  know  es- 
timable people  who  frequently  relax,  like  chickens 
in  the  sun ;  but  I  know  only  a  few  who  use  relaxa- 
tion as  a  threshold  and  not  as  a  goal,  and  who  idle 
until  the  hour  yields  its  full  blessing. 

I  wondered  if  to  idle  at  adventure  might  not  be 
the  way  to  June,  so  I  went  out  on  the  six  o'clock 
street  in  somewhat  the  spirit  in  which  another  might 
ride  the  greenwood.  Almost  immediately  I  had  an 
encounter,  for  I  came  on  my  neighbour  in  her 
garden.  Not  my  neighbour  who  lives  on  the  other 
side  of  me,  and  who  is  a  big  and  obvious  deacon, 


1 8         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

with  a  family  of  a  great  many  Light  Gowns  ;  but 
My  Neighbour.  She  was  watering  her  garden. 
These  water  rules  and  regulations  of  the  village  are 
among  its  spells.  To  look  at  the  members  of  the 
water  commission  one  would  never  suspect  them  of 
romance.  But  if  they  have  it  not,  why  have  they 
named  from  five  until  nine  o'clock  the  only  morning 
hours  when  one  may  use  the  city  water  for  one's 
lawn  and  garden  ?  I  insist  that  it  cannot  be  a  mere 
regard  for  the  municipal  resources,  and  that  the  com- 
missioners must  see  something  of  the  romance  of  get- 
ting up  before  five  o'clock  to  drench  one's  garden, 
and  are  providing  for  the  special  educational  value 
of  such  a  custom.  Or,  if  I  do  not  believe  this,  I 
wish  very  much  that  I  did,  with  the  proper  grounds. 
To  tell  the  truth,  however,  I  do  not  credit  even 
my  neighbour  with  feeling  the  romance  of  the  hour 
and  of  her  occupation.  She  is  a  still  woman  of  more 
than  forty,  who  does  not  feel  a  difference  between 
her  flower  and  her  vegetable  gardens,  but  regards 
them  both  as  a  part  of  her  life  in  the  kind  of  car- 
window  indifference  and  complacency  of  certain 
travellers.  She  raises  foxgloves  and  parsley,  and  the 
sun  shines  over  all.  I  must  note  a  strange  impres- 
sion which  my  neighbour  gives  me :  she  has  always 
for  me  an  air  of  personal  impermanence.  I  have 
the  fancy,  amounting  to  a  sensation,  that  she  is 
where  she  is  for  just  a  moment,  and  that  she  must 


INSIDE  JUNE  19 

rush  back  and  be  at  it  again.  I  do  not  know 
at  what.  But  whether  I  see  her  in  church  or  at  a 
festival,  I  have  always  all  I  can  do  to  resist  saying 
to  her,  "How  did  you  get  away?"  It  was  so 
that  she  was  watering  her  flowers  ;  as  if  she  were 
intending  at  any  moment  to  hurry  off  to  get  break- 
fast or  put  up  the  hammock  or  mend.  And  yet  be- 
fore she  did  so  she  told  me,  who  was  a  willing 
listener,  a  motion  or  two  of  the  spirit  of  the  village. 

There  is,  I  observe,  a  nicety  of  etiquette  here, 
about  the  Not-quite-news,  Not-quite-gossip  shared 
with  strangers  and  semi-strangers.  The  rules  seem 
to  be :  — 

Strangers  shall  be  told  only  the  pleasant  occur- 
rences and  conditions. 

Half  strangers  may  discuss  the  unpleasant  matters 
which  they  themselves  have  somehow  heard,  but 
only  pleasant  matters  may  be  added  by  accretion. 

The  rest  of  society  may  say  whatever  it  "  has  a 
mind."  But  this  mind,  as  I  believe,  is  not  harsh, 
since  nobody  ever  gossips  except  to  people  who 
gossip  back. 

"  Mis'  Toplady  told  me  last  night  that  Calliope 
Marsh  is  coming  home  for  the  Java  entertainment, 
next  week,"  my  neighbour  imparted  first.  And  this 
was  the  best  news  that  she  could  have  given  me. 

It  has  been  a  great  regret  to  me  that  this  summer 
Calliope  is  not  in  the  village.  She  has  gone  to  the 


20          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE  STORIES 

city  to  nurse  some  distant  kinswoman  more  lonely 
than  she,  and  until  ill-health  came,  long  forgetful  of 
Calliope.  But  she  is  to  come  back  now  and  again, 
to  this  and  to  that,  for  the  village  interests  are  all 
her  own.  I  have  never  known  any  one  in  whom 
the  tribal  sense  is  so  persistently  alive  as  in  Calliope. 

I  asked  my  neighbour  what  this  Java  entertain- 
ment would  be,  which  was  to  give  back  Calliope, 
and  she  looked  her  amazement  that  I  did  not  know. 
It  would  be,  it  appeared,  one  of  those  great  fairs 
which  the  missionary  society  is  always  projecting 
and  carrying  magnificently  forward. 

"It's  awful  feet-aching  work,"  said  my  neighbour, 
reflectively  ;  "  but  honestly,  Calliope  seems  to  like  it. 
I  donno  but  I  do,  too.  The  Sodality  meant  to  have 
one  when  they  set  out  to  pave  Daphne  Street,  but  it 
turned  out  it  wasn't  needed.  Well,  big  affairs  like 
that  makes  it  seem  as  if  we'd  been  born  into  the 
whole  world  and  not  just  into  Friendship  Village." 

My  neighbour  told  me  that  a  new  public  library 
had  been  opened  in  a  corner  of  the  post-office  store, 
and  that  "  a  great  crowd  "  was  drawing  books,  though 
for  this  she  herself  cannot  vouch,  since  the  library  is 
only  open  Saturday  evenings,  and  "  Saturday,"  she 
says  with  decision,  "  is  a  bad  night."  It  is,  in  fact, 
I  note,  very  difficult  to  find  a  free  night  in  the 
village,  save  only  Tuesday.  Monday,  because  of 
its  obvious  duties  and  incident  fatigue,  is  as  impos- 


INSIDE  JUNE  21 

sible  as  Sunday  ;  Wednesday  is  club  day  ;  Thursday 
"is  prayer-meeting";  Friday  is  sacred  to  church  sup- 
pers and  entertainments  and  the  Ladies' Aid  Society  ; 
and  Saturday  is  invariably  denominated  a  bad  night 
and  omitted  without  question.  We  are  remote  from 
society,  but  Tuesday  is  literally  our  only  free  even- 
ing. 

"  Of  course  it  won't  be  the  same  with  you  about 
books,"  my  neighbour  admits.  "  You  can  send  your 
girl  down  to  get  a  book  for  you.  But  I  have  to  be 
home  to  get  out  the  clean  clothes.  How's  your 
girl  going  to  like  the  country  ?  "  she  asked. 

I  am  to  have  here  in  the  village,  I  find,  many  a 
rebuke  for  habits  of  mine  which  lag  behind  my 
theories.  For  though  I  try  to  solve  my  share  of  a 
tragic  question  by  giving  to  my  Swedish  maid,  Elfa, 
the  self-respect  and  the  privilege  suited  to  a  human 
being  dependent  on  me,  together  with  ways  of  com- 
fort and  some  leisure,  yet  I  find  the  homely  customs 
of  the  place  to  have  accomplished  more  than  my 
careful  system.  And  though,  when  I  took  her  from 
town  I  scrupulously  added  to  the  earnings  of  my  little 
maid,  I  confess  that  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  to 
wonder  whether  or  not  she  would  like  Friendship 
Village.  We  seem  so  weary-far  from  the  conditions 
which  we  so  facilely  conceive.  Especially,  I  seem 
far.  I  am  afraid  that  I  engaged  Elfa  in  the  first 
place  with  less  attention  to  her  economic  fitness  than 


22          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

that  she  is  so  trim  and  still  and  wistful,  with  such  a 
peculiarly  winning  upward  look ;  and  that  her  name 
is  Elfa.  I  told  my  neighbour  that  I  did  not  know  yet, 
whether  Elfa  would  like  it  here  or  not ;  and  for  refuge 
I  found  fault  with  the  worms  on  the  rose  bushes. 
Also  I  made  a  note  in  my  head  to  ask  Elfa  how  she 
likes  the  country.  But  the  spirit  of  a  thing  is  flown 
when  you  make  a  note  of -it  in  your  head.  How 
does  Elfa  like  the  town,  for  that  matter?  I  never 
have  asked  her  this,  either. 

"  She'll  be  getting  married  on  your  hands,  any- 
way," my  neighbour  observed ;  "the  ladies  here  say 
that's  one  trouble  with  trying  to  keep  a  hired  girl. 
They  will  get  married.  But  I  say,  let  'em." 

At  least  here  is  a  matter  in  which  my  theory,  like 
that  of  my  neighbour's,  outruns  those  of  certain  folk 
of  both  town  and  village.  For  I  myself  have  heard 
women  complain  of  their  servants  marrying  and 
establishing  families,  and  deplore  this  shortsighted- 
ness in  not  staying  where  there  is  "  a  good  home, 
a  nice  room,  plenty  to  eat,  and  all  the  flat  pieces 
sent  to  the  laundry." 

"  Speaking  of  books,"  said  my  neighbour,  "  have 
you  seen  Nicholas  Moor  ?  " 

"  I  see  almost  no  new  books,"  I  told  her  guiltily. 

"  Me  either,"  she  said  ;  "  I  don't  mean  he's  a  book. 
He's  a  boy.  Nicholas  Moor  —  that  does  a  little 
writin'  himself?  I  guess  you  will  see  him.  He'll 


INSIDE  JUNE  23 

be  bringin'  some  of  his  writings  up  to  show  you. 
He  took  some  to  the  new  school  principal,  I  heard, 
and  to  the  invalid  that  was  here  from  the  city.  He 
seems  to  be  sort  of  lonesome,  though  he  has  got 
a  good  position.  He's  interested  in  celluloid  and 
he  rings  the  Catholic  bell.  Nicholas  must  be  near 
thirty,  but  he  hasn't  even  showed  any  signs." 

"  Signs  ?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Of  being  in  love,"  she  says  simply.  And  I  have 
pondered  pleasantly  on  this  significant  ellipsis  of  hers 
which  takes  serenely  for  granted  the  basic  business 
of  the  world.  Her  elision  reminds  me  of  the 
delicate  animism  of  the  Japanese  which  says,  "  When 
the  rice  pot  speaks  with  a  human  voice,  then  the 
demon's  name  is  Kanjo."  One  can  appraise  a  race 
or  an  individual  by  the  class  of  things  which  speech 
takes  for  granted,  love  or  a  demon  or  whatever  it  be. 

And  apropos  of  "  showing  signs,"  do  I  remember 
Liva  Vesey  and  Timothy  Toplady,  Jr.  ?  I  am 
forced  to  confess  that  I  remember  neither.  I  recall, 
to  be  sure,  that  the  Topladys  had  a  son,  but  I  had 
thought  of  him  as  a  kind  of  qualifying  clause  and  it 
is  difficult  to  conceive  of  him  as  the  subject  of  a  new 
sentence.  When  I  hear  of  Liva  Vesey  I  get  her 
confused  with  a  pink  gingham  apron  and  a  pail  of 
buttermilk  which  used  sometimes  to  pass  my  house 
with  Liva  combined.  Fancy  that  pink  gingham 
and  that  pail  becoming  a  person!  And  my  neigh- 


24          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

hour  tells  me  that  the  Qualifying  Clause  and  the 
Pink  Gingham  are  "  keeping  company/*  and  per- 
haps are  to  determine  the  cut  of  indeterminate 
clauses  and  aprons,  world  without  end. 

"  The  young  folks  will  couple  off/*  says  my 
neighbour  ;  "  and,"  she  adds,  in  a  manner  of  spon- 
taneous impression,  "  /  think  it's  nice.  And  it's  nice 
for  the  whole  family,  too.  I've  seen  families  that 
wouldn't  ever  have  looked  at  each  other  come  to  be 
real  friends  and  able  to  see  the  angels  in  each  other 
just  by  the  young  folks  pairing  off.  This  whole 
town's  married  crisscross  and  kittering,  family  into 
family.  I  like  it.  It  kind  o'  binds  the  soil." 

My  neighbour  told  me  of  other  matters  current 
in  the  village,  pleasant  commonplaces  having  for 
her  the  living  spirit  which  the  commonplace  holds 
in  hostage.  ("I'm  breathing,"  Little  Child  soberly 
announced  to  me  that  first  day  of  our  acquaintance. 
And  I  wonder  why  I  smiled?)  My  neighbour 
slowly  crossed  her  garden  and  I  followed  on  the 
walk  —  these  informal  colloquies  of  no  mean  length 
are  perfectly  usual  in  the  village  and  they  do  not 
carry  the  necessity  for  an  invitation  within  the  house 
or  the  implication  of  a  call.  The  relations  of  host- 
ess and  guest  seem  simply  to  be  suspended,  and  we 
talk  with  the  freedom  of  spirits  met  in  air.  Is  this 
not  in  its  way  prophetic  of  the  time  when  we  shall 
meet,  burdened  of  no  conventions  or  upholstery  or 


INSIDE  JUNE  25 

perhaps  even  words,  and  there  talk  with  the  very 
freedom  of  villagers  ?  Meanwhile  I  am  content 
with  conventions,  and  passive  amid  upholstery.  But 
I  do  catch  myself  looking  forward. 

Suddenly  my  neighbour  turned  to  me  with  such 
a  startled,  inquiring  manner  that  I  sent  my  atten- 
tion out  as  at  an  alarm  to  see  what  she  meant.  And 
then  I  heard  what  I  had  not  before  noted :  a  thin, 
wavering  line  of  singing,  that  had  begun  in  the 
street  beyond  our  houses,  and  now  floated  incon- 
sequently  to  us,  lifting,Mipping,  wandering.  I  could 
even  hear  the  absurd  words. 

"  My  Mary  Anna  Mary,  what  you  mean  I  never  know. 

You  don't  make  me  merry,  very,  but  you  maKe  me  sorry,  oh  —  " 

the  "oh"  prolonged,  undulatory,  exploring  the  air. 

To  say  something  was  like  interrupting  my 
neighbour's  expression  ;  so  I  waited,  and, 

"  It's  old  Gary,"  she  explained  briefly.  "  When 
he  does  that  it's  like  something  hurts  you,  ain't  it?" 

I  thought  that  this  would  be  no  one  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, and  I  said  so,  but  tentatively,  lest  I 
should  be  forgetting  some  inherent  figure  of  the 
village. 

"He's  come  here  in  the  year,"  she  explained  — 
and,  save  about  the  obvious  import  of  old  Gary's  maud- 
lin song,  she  maintained  that  fine,  tribal  reticence 
of  hers.  "  Except  for  the  drinking,"  she  even  said, 


26          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

cc  he  seems  to  be  a  quiet,  nice  man.  But  it's  a 
shame  —  for  Peter's  sake.  Peter  .Gary,"  she  added, 
like  a  challenge,  "  is  the  brainiest  young  man  in  this 
town,  say  what  you  want." 

On  which  she  told  me  something  of  this  young 
superintendent  of  the  canning  factory  who  has 
"  tried  it  in  Nebraska,"  and  could  not  bear  to  leave 
his  father  here,  "  this  way,"  and  has  just  returned. 
cc  He  works  hard,  and  plays  the  violin,  and  is  making 
a  man  of  himself  generally,"  she  told  me ;  "  Don't 
miss  him."  And  I  have  promised  that  I  will  try  not 
to  miss  Peter  Gary. 

"  They  live  out  towards  the  cemetery  way,"  she 
added,  "  him  and  his  father,  all  alone.  Peter'll  be 
along  by  here  in  a  minute  on  his  way  to  work  — 
it's  most  quarter  to.  I  set  my  husband  down  to  his 
breakfast  and  got  up  his  lunch  before  I  come  out  — 
I  don't  have  my  breakfast  till  the  men  folks  get 
out  of  the  way." 

I  never  cease  to  marvel  at  these  splendid  capabili- 
ties which  prepare  breakfasts,  put  up  lunches,  turn 
the  attention  to  the  garden,  and  all,  so  to  speak, 
with  the  left  hand ;  ready  at  any  moment  to  enter 
upon  the  real  business  of  life  —  to  minister  to  the 
sick  or  bury  the  dead,  or  conduct  a  town  meeting 
or  a  church  supper  or  a  birth.  They  have  a  kind 
of  goddess-like  competence,  these  women.  At  any 
of  these  offices  they  arrive,  lacking  the  cloud,  it  is 


INSIDE  JUNE  27 

true,  but  magnificently  equipped  to  settle  the  occa- 
sion. In  crises  of,  say,  deafness,  they  will  clap  a 
hot  pancake  on  a  friend's  ear  with  an  ^sculapian 
savoir  fatre,  for  their  efficiencies  combine  those  of 
lost  generations  with  all  that  they  hear  of  in  this,  in 
an  open-minded  eclecticism.  With  Puritans  and 
foresters  and  courtiers  in  our  blood,  who  knows  but 
that  we  have,  too,  the  lingering  ichor  of  gods  and 
goddesses?  Oh  —  "don't  you  wish  you  bad?' 
What  a  charming  peculiarity  it  would  be  to  be  de- 
scended from  a  state  of  immortality  as  well  as  to 
be  preparing  for  it,  nay,  even  now  to  be  entered 
upon  it ! 

In  a  few  moments  after  that  piteous,  fuddled  song 
had  died  away  on  the  other  street,  Peter  Gary  came 
by  my  neighbour's  house.  He  was  a  splendid,  mus- 
cular figure  in  a  neutral,  belted  shirt  and  a  hat  bat- 
tered quite  to  college  exactions,  though  I  am  sure 
that  Peter  did  not  know  that.  I  could  well  believe 
that  he  was  making  a  man  of  himself.  I  have 
temerity  to  say  that  this  boy  superintendent  of  a 
canning  factory  looked  as,  in  another  milieu,  Shelley 
might  have  looked,  but  so  it  was.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  I  have  seen  in  such  an  one  the  look, 
the  eyes  with  the  vision  and  the  shadow.  I  have 
seen  it  in  the  face  of  a  man  who  stood  on  a  step- 
ladder,  papering  a  wall ;  I  have  seen  it  in  a  mason 
who  looked  up  from  the  foundation  that  he  mor- 


23          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

tared ;  I  have  seen  it  often  and  often  in  the  faces  of 
men  who  till  the  soil.  I  was  not  surprised  to 
know  that  Peter  Gary  "  took  "  on  the  violin.  The 
violin  is  a  way  out  (for  that  look  in  one's  eyes),  as, 
for  Nicholas  Moor,  I  have  no  doubt,  is  the  ringing 
of  the  Catholic  bell.  And  I  am  not  prepared  to  say 
that  celluloid,  and  wall-paper,  and  mortar,  and  mead- 
ows, and  canneries, — run  under  good  conditions, — 
may  not  be  a  way  out  as  well.  At  all  events,  the 
look  was  still  in  Peter's  face. 

Peter  glanced  briefly  at  my  neighbour,  running 
the  risk  of  finding  us  both  looking  at  him,  realized 
the  worst,  blushed  a  man's  brown  blush,  and  nodded 
and  smiled  after  he  had  looked  away  from  us. 

"  You  see  this  grass  ? "  said  my  neighbour. 
"  Peter  keeps  it  cut,  my  husband  don't  get  home 
till  so  late.  We're  awful  fond  of  Peter." 

There  is  no  more  tender  eulogy.  And  I  would 
rather  have  that  said  of  me  in  the  village  than  in  any 
place  I  know.  No  grace  of  manner  or  dress  or  mind 
can  deceive  anybody.  They  are  fond  of  you  or  they 
are  not,  and  I  would  trust  their  reasons  for  either. 

My  neighbour's  husband  came  out  the  front  door 
at  that  moment,  and  he  and  Peter,  without  greeting, 
went  on  together.  Her  husband  did  not  look 
toward  us,  because,  in  the  village,  it  seems  not  to  be 
a  husband  and  wife  ceremonial  to  say  good-by  in 
the  morning.  I  often  fall  wondering  how  it  is  in 


INSIDE  JUNE  29 

other  places.  Is  it  possible  -that  men  in  general  go 
away  to  work  without  the  consciousness  of  family, 
of  themselves  as  going  forth  on  the  common  quest  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  women  see  them  go  and  are  so 
unaware  of  the  wonder  of  material  life  that  they  do 
not  instance  it  in,  at  least,  good-by  ?  One  would 
think  that  even  the  female  bear  in  the  back  of  the 
cave  must  growl  out  something  simple  when  her 
lord  leaves  her  in  the  hope  of  a  good  kill. 

And  when  the  two  men  had  turned  down  the 
brick  walk,  the  maple  leaves  making  a  come-and-go 
of  shadows  and  sun-patterns  on  their  backs,  my 
neighbour  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  —  or,  say,  with 
two-thirds  of  a  smile  —  as  if  her  vote  to  smile  were 
unanimous,  but  she  were  unwilling  by  it  to  impart  too 
much. 

"  It's  all  Miggy  with  Peter,"  she  said,  as  if  she 
were  mentioning  a  symptom. 

"  Miggy?"  I  said  with  interest  —  and  found  my- 
self nodding  to  this  new  relationship  as  to  a  new 
acquaintance.  And  I  was  once  more  struck  with  the 
precision  with  which  certain  simple  people  and  nearly 
all  great  people  discard  the  particularities  and  lay  bare 
their  truths.  Could  any  amount  of  elegant  phrasing 
so  reach  the  heart  of  the  thing  and  show  it  beating 
as  did,  "  It's  all  Miggy  with  Peter"? 

"  Yes,"  my  neighbour  told  me,  "  it's  been  her  with 
him  ever  since  he  come  here." 


30         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Assuredly  I  thought  the  better  of  Miggy  for  this  ; 
and, 

"Is  it  all  Peter  with  Miggy?"  I  inquired,  with 
some  eagerness. 

Land  knows,  my  neighbour  thought,  and  handed 
me  the  hose  to  hold  while  she  turned  off  the  water 
at  the  hydrant.  I  remember  that  a  young  robin 
tried  to  alight  on  the  curving  sp'ray  just  as  the  water 
failed  and  drooped. 

"I  like  to  get  a  joke  on  a  robin  that  way,"  said 
my  neighbour,  and  laughed  out,  in  a  kind  of  pleasant 
fellowship  with  jokes  in  general  and  especially  with 
robins.  "  It  made  Miggy's  little  sister  laugh  so  the 
other  day  when  that  happened,"  she  added.  Then 
she  glanced  over  at  me  with  a  look  in  her  face  that 
I  have  not  seen  there  before. 

"  Land,"  she  said,  "  this  is  the  time  of  day,  after 
my  husband  goes  off  in  the  morning,  when  I  wish  I 
had  a  little  young  thing,  runnin'  round.  Now  al- 
most more  than  at  night.  Well  —  I  don't  know; 
both  times." 

I  nodded,  without  saying  anything,  my  eyes  on 
a  golden  robin  prospecting  vainly  among  the  green 
mulberries.  I  wish  that  I  were  of  those  who  know 
what  to  say  when  a  door  is  opened  like  this  to  some 
shut  place. 

"  Well,"  said  my  neighbour,  "  now  I'll  bake  up  the 
rest  of  the  batter.  Want  a  pink?  " 


INSIDE  JUNE  31 

Thus  tacitly  excused  —  how  true  her  instinct  was, 
courteously  to  put  the  three  fringed  pinks  in  my 
hand  to  palliate  her  leaving !  —  I  have  come  back  to 
my  house  and  my  own  breakfast. 

"  Elfa,"  said  I,  first  thing,  "do  you  think  you  are 
going  to  like  the  country? " 

My  little  maid  turned  to  me  with  her  winning 
upward  look. 

"  No'm,"  she  shocked  me  by  saying.  And  there 
was  another  door,  opened  into  another  shut  place; 
and  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  that  either. 

But  I  am  near  to  my  neighbour ;  and,  in  a  manner 
to  which  Elfa's  trimness  and  wistfulness  never  have 
impressed  me,  near  to  Elfa  herself,  and  I  am  near, 
near  to  the  village.  As  I  left  the  outdoors  just  now, 
all  the  street 'was  alive:  with  men  and  girls  going  to 
work,  women  opening  windows,  a  wagon  or  two  in 
from  a  Caledonia  farm,  a  general,  universal,  not  to 
say  cosmic  air  of  activity  and  coffee.  All  the  little 
houses,  set  close  together  up  and  down  the  street, 
were  like  a  friendly  porch  party,  on  a  long,  narrow 
veranda,  where  folk  sit  knee  to  knee  with  an  avenue 
between  for  the  ice-cream  to  be  handed.  All  the 
little  lawns  and  gardens  were  disposed  like  soft  green 
skirts,  delicately  embroidered,  fragrant,  flowing.  .  .  . 
As  I  looked,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  hear  the 
faint  hum  of  the  village  talk  —  in  every  house  the 
intimate,  revealing  confidences  of  the  Family,  quick 


32          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

with  hope  or  anxiety  or  humour  or  passion,  animated 
by  its  common  need  to  live.  And  along  the  street 
flooded  the  sun,  akin  to  the  morning  quickening  in 
many  a  heart. 

The  day  has  become  charged  for  me  with  some- 
thing besides  daylight,  something  which  no  less 
than  daylight  pervades,  illumines,  comes  to  meet  me 
at  a  thousand  points.  I  wonder  if  it  can  be  that, 
unaware,  I  did  get  near  to  June? 


Ill 


MIGGY 

I  HAVE  never  heard  the  chimes  of  Westminster 
cathedral,  but  when  sometime  they  do  sound  forme 
I  shall  find  in  them  something  all  my  own.  For 
the  old  rosewood  clock  which  hap.  told  time  for  me 
these  many  years  is  possessed  of  a  kind  of  intelli- 
gence because  its  maker  gave  to  it  the  Westminster 
chimes.  Thus,  though  the  clock  must  by  patient 
ticking  teach  the  rhythm  of  duration  until  the  secret 
monotony  of  rhythm  is  confessed,  it  has  also  its 
high  tides  of  life,  rhythmic,  too,  and  at  every  quarter 
hour  fills  a  kind  of  general  creative  office  :  four 
notes  for  the  quarter,  eight  for  the  half,  twelve  for 
the  three-quarters,  sixteen  for  the  hour,  and  then 
the  deep  Amen  of  the  strokes.  At  twelve  o'clock  it 
swells  richly  to  its  zenith  of  expression  and  almost  says 
something  else.  Through  even  the  organ  fulness  of 
the  cathedral  bells  I  shall  hear  the  tingling  melody  of 
the  rosewood  clock  chimes,  for  their  sweet  incidence 
has  been  to  me  both  matins  and  lullaby  and  often 
trembles  within  my  sleep.  I  have  the  clock  always 
D  33 


34         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

with  me.  It  is  a  little  voice-friend,  it  is  one  of 
those  half  folk,  like  flowers  and  the  wind  and  an 
open  fireplace  and  a  piano,  which  are  a  frail,  semi- 
born  race,  wistful  of  complete  life,  but  as  yet  only 
partly  overlapping  our  own  sphere.  These  fasci- 
nate me  almost  as  much  as  the  articulate.  That 
was  why,  when  my  little  maid  Elfa  had  brought  me 
the  summons  to-day,  I  stood  on  the  threshold  and 
in  some  satisfaction  watched  Miggy,  rapt  before  my 
clock  in  its  musical  maximum  of  noon. 

Miggy  is  as  thin  as  a  bough,  and  her  rather  large 
head  is  swept  by  an  ungovernable  lot  of  fine  brown 
hair.  Her  face  was  turned  from  me,  and  she  was 
wearing  a  high-necked  gingham  apron  faded  to 
varying  values  of  brown  and  faint  purple  and  violet 
of  a  quite  surprising  beauty.  When  the  last  stroke 
ceased,  she  turned  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  there  all 
the  time. 

"  I  wish  I  could  hear  it  do  that  again,"  she  said, 
standing  where  she  had  stood,  arms  folded. 

"  You  will,  perhaps,  to-morrow,"  I  answered. 

Truly,  if  it  was  to  be  Miggy,  then  she  would  hear 
the  chimes  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  ;  and  as  she 
turned,  my  emotion  of  finality  increased.  I  have 
never  loved  the  tribe  of  the  Headlongs,  though  I 
am  very  sorry  for  any  one  who  has  not  had  with 
them  an  occasional  innocent  tribal  junket;  but  I 
hold  that  through  our  intuitions,  we  may  become 


MIGGY  35 

a  kind  of  apotheosis  of  the  Headlongs.  Who  of  us 
has  not  chosen  a  vase,  a  chair,  a  rug,  by  some  motive 
transcending  taste,  by  the  bidding  of  a  friendly- 
faithful  monitor  who,  somewhere  inside  one,  nodded 
a  choice  which  we  obeyed  ?  And  yet  a  vase  is  a 
dead  thing  with  no  little  seeking  tentacles  that  catch 
and  cling,  while  in  choosing  the  living  it  is  that 
one's  friendly-faithful  monitor  is  simply  recognizing 
the  monitor  of  the  other  person.  I,  for  one,  am 
more  and  more  willing  to  trust  these  two  to  avow 
their  own.  For  I  think  that  this  monitor  is,  per- 
haps, that  silent  Custodian  whom,  if  ever  I  can  win 
through  her  elusiveness,  I  shall  know  to  be  myself. 
As  the  years  pass  I  trust  her  more  and  more.  I  find 
that  we  like  the  same  people,  she  and  I!  And  in- 
stantly we  both  liked  Miggy. 

Miggy  stood  regarding  me  intently. 

"  I  saw  you  go  past  the  Brevy's  yesterday,  where 
the  crape  is  on  the  door,"  she  observed ;  "  I  thought 
it  was  you." 

I  wonder  at  the  precision  with  which  very  little 
people  and  very  big  people  brush  aside  the  minor 
conventions  and  do  it  in  such  ways  that  one  nature 
is  never  mistaken  for  the  other. 

"  The  girl  who  died  there  was  your  friend,  then  ? " 
I  asked. 

"  No,"  Miggy  said  ;  "  I  just  knew  her  to  speak 
to.  And  she  didn't  always  bother  her  head  to 


3  6          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

speak  to  me.  I  just  went  in  there  yesterday  morning 
to  get  the  feeling." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     To  get  —  what?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well/'  said  Miggy,  "  you  know  when  you  look 
at  a  corpse  you  can  always  sense  your  own  breath 
better  —  like  it  was  something  alive  inside  you. 
That's  why  I  never  miss  seeing  one  if  I  can  help. 
It's  the  only  time  I'm  real  glad  I'm  living." 

As  I  motioned  her  to  the  chair  and  took  my  own, 
I  felt  a  kind  of  weariness.  The  neurotics,  I  do 
believe,  are  of  us  all  the  nearest  to  the  truth  about 
things,  but  as  I  grow  older  I  find  myself  getting  to 
take  a  surpassing  comfort  in  the  normal.  Or  rather, 
I  am  always  willing  to  have  the  normal  thrust  upon 
me,  but  my  neurotics  I  wish  to  select  for  myself. 

"  My  neighbour  tells  me,"  I  said  merely,  "that  she 
thinks  you  should  be  my  secretary."  (It  is  a  big 
word  for  the  office,  but  a  little  hill  is  still  a  hill.) 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Miggy,  simply,  "  I  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  anybody's  secretary  ? "  I 
continued. 

"  Never,"  said  Miggy.  "  I  never  saw  anybody 
before  that  had  a  secretary." 

"  But  something  must  have  made  her  think  you 
would  do,"  I  suggested.  "And  what  made  you 
think  so  ? " 

"  Well,"  Miggy  said,  "  she  thinks  so  because  she 


MIGGY  37 

wants  me  to  get  ahead.  And  I  think  so  because  I 
generally  think  I  can  do  anything — except  mathe- 
matics. Has  Secretary  got  any  mathematics  about 


it  ?  " 


"  Not  my  secretary  work/'  I  told  her,  reviewing 
these  extraordinary  qualifications  for  duty  ;  "  except 
counting  the  words  on  a  page.  You  could  do 
that  ? " 

"  Oh,  that !  "  said  Miggy.  "  But  if  you  told  me 
to  multiply  two  fractions  you'd  never  see  me  again, 
no  matter  how  much  I  wanted  to  come  back. 
Calliope  Marsh  says  she's  always  expecting  to  find 
some  folks'  heads  caved  in  on  one  side  —  same  as  red 
and  blue  balloons.  If  mine  caved,  it'd  be  on  the 
mathematics  corner." 

I  assured  her  that  I  never  have  a  fraction  in  my 
house. 

"  Then  I'll  come,"  said  Miggy,  simply. 

But  immediately  she  leaned  forward  with  a  look 
of  anxiety,  and  her  face  was  pointed  and  big-eyed, 
so  that  distress  became  a  part  of  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  forgot.  I  meant  to  tell  you 
first." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Can  you  not  come,  after  all  ?  "  I 
inquired  gravely. 

"  I've  got  a  drawback,"  said  Miggy,  soberly. 
"  A  man's  in  love  with  me." 

She  linked  her  arms  before  her,  a  hand  on  either 


3 8          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

shoulder  —  arms  whose  slenderness  amazes  me, 
though  at  the  wrist  they  taper  and  in  their  extreme 
littleness  are  yet  round.  Because  of  this  frailty  she 
has  a  kind  of  little  girl  look  which  at  that  moment 
curiously  moved  me. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"  About  it  being  a  drawback  ?  Everybody  'most/' 
said  Miggy.  "  They  all  laugh  about  us  and  act  like 
it  was  a  pity." 

For  a  moment  I  felt  a  kind  of  anger  as  I  felt 
it  once  when  a  woman  said  to  me  of  a  wife  of  many 
years  whose  first  little  child  was  coming,  that  she 
was  "  in  trouble."  I  own  that,  —  save  with  my 
neighbour,  and  Calliope,  and  a  few  more  whom  I 
love  —  here  in  the  village  I  miss  the  simple  good 
breeding  of  the  perception  that  nothing  is  nobler 
than  the  emotions,  and  the  simple  good  taste  of 
taking  seriously  love  among  its  young.  Taking  it 
seriously,  I  say.  Not,  heaven  forbid,  taking  it  for 
granted,  as  do  the  cities. 

"  Other  things  being  equal,  I  prefer  folk  who  are 
in  love,"  I  told  Miggy.  Though  I  observe  that  I 
instance  a  commercialization  which  I  deplore  by  not 
insisting  on  this  secretarial  qualification  to  anything 
like  the  extent  with  which  I  insist  on,  say,  spelling. 

Miggy  nodded  —  three  little  nods  which  seemed 
to  settle  everything. 

"Then   I'll   come,"  she  repeated.     "Anyhow,  it 


MIGGY  39 

isn't  me  that's  in  love  at  all.  It's  Peter.  But  of 
course  I  have  to  have  some  of  the  blame." 

So !  It  was,  then,  not  "  all  Peter  with  Miggy." 
Poor  Peter.  It  must  be  a  terrific  problem  to  be  a 
Peter  to  such  a  Miggy.  I  must  have  looked  "  Poor 
Peter,"  because  the  girl's  face  took  on  its  first  smile. 
Such  a  smile  as  it  was,  brilliant,  sparkling,  occupy- 
ing her  features  instead  of  informing  them. 

"  He  won't  interfere  much,"  she  observed.  "  He's 
in  the  cannery  all  day  and  then  he  practises  violin 
and  tinkers.  I  only  see  him  one  or  two  evenings  a 
week ;  and  I  never  think  of  him  at  all." 

"  As  my  secretary,"  said  I,  cc  you  may  make  a 
mental  note  for  me :  remind  me  that  I  wish  some- 
time to  meet  Peter." 

"He'll  be  real  pleased,"  said  Miggy,  "and  real 
scared.  Now  about  my  being  your  secretary :  do 
I  have  to  take  down  everything  you  do  ? " 

"  My  dear  child!"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  I  ? "  said  Miggy.  "  Why,  the  Ladies'  Aid 
has  a  secretary  and  she  takes  down  every  single 
thing  the  society  does.  I  thought  that  was  being 
one." 

I  told  her,  as  well  as  might  be,  what  I  should  re- 
quire of  her  —  not  by  now,  I  own,  with  any  particu- 
larity of  idea  that  I  had  a  secretary,  but  rather  that  I 
had  surprisingly  acquired  a  Miggy,  who  might  be 
of  use  in  many  a  little  mechanical  task.  She  listened, 


4o          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

and,  when  I  had  made  an  end,  gave  her  three  little 
nods  ;  but  her  face  fell. 

"  It's  just  doing  as  you're  told,"  she  summed  it  up 
with  a  sigh.  cc  Everything  is,  ain't  it  ?  I  thought 
maybe  Secretary  was  doing  your  best." 

"  But  it  is,"  I  told  her. 

"  No,"  she  said  positively,  "  you  can't  do  your 
best  when  you  have  to  do  just  exactly  what  you're 
told.  Your  best  tells  you  how  to  do  itself." 

At  this  nai've  putting  of  the  personal  equation 
which  should  play  so  powerful  a  part  in  the  eco- 
nomics of  toil  I  was  minded  to  apologize  for  intend- 
ing to  interfere  with  set  tasks  in  Miggy's  possible  du- 
ties with  me.  She  had  the  truth,  though  :  that  the 
strong  creative  instinct  is  the  chief  endowment, 
primal  as  breath ;  for  on  it  depend  both  life  and  the 
expression  of  life,  the  life  of  the  race  and  the  ultimate 
racial  utterance. 

We  talked  on  for  a  little,  Miggy,  I  observed, 
having  that  royal  indifference  to  time  which,  when 
it  does  not  involve  indifference  to  the  time  of  other 
people,  I  delightedly  commend.  For  myself,  I 
can  never  understand  why  I  should  eat  at  one  or 
sleep  at  eleven,  if  it  is,  as  it  often  is,  my  one  and  my 
eleven  and  nobody  else's.  For,  as  between  the 
clock  and  me  alone,  one  and  eleven  and  all  other 
o'clocks  are  mine  and  I  am  not  theirs.  But  I  have 
known  men  and  women  living  in  hotels  who  would 


MIGGY  41 

interrupt  a  sunset  to  go  to  dine,  or  wave  away  the 
stars  in  their  courses  to  go  to  sleep,  merely  because 
the  hour  had  struck.  It  must  be  in  their  blood, 
poor  things,  as  descendants  from  the  cell,  to  which 
time  and  space  were  the  only  considerations. 

When  Miggy  was  leaving,  she  paused  on  the 
threshold  with  her  first  hint  of  shyness,  a  hint 
which  I  welcomed.  I  think  that  every  one  to  whom 
I  am  permanently  drawn  must  have  in  his  nature  a 
phase  of  shyness,  even  of  unconquerable  timidity. 

"If  I  shouldn't  do  things,"  Miggy  said,  "like 
you're  used  to  having  them  done  —  would  you  tell 
me  ?  I  know  a  few  nice  things  to  do  and  I  do 
*em.  But  I'm  always  waking  up  in  the  night  and 
thinking  what  a  lot  there  must  be  that  I  do  wrong. 
So  if  I  do  'em  wrong  would  you  mind  not  just 
squirming  and  keeping  still  about  'em  —  but  tell 
me?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  child,  if  there  is  need,"  I  promised 
her.  And  I  caught  her  smile  —  that  faint,  swift, 
solemn  minute  which  sometimes  reveals  on  a  face 
the  childlike  wistfulness  of  every  one  of  us,  under 
the  mask,  to  come  as  near  as  may  be  to  the  others. 

I  own  that  when,  just  now,  I  turned  from  her 
leave-taking,  I  had  that  infrequent  sense  of  empti- 
ness-in-the-room  which  I  have  had  usually  only 
with  those  I  love  or  with  some  rare  being,  all  fire 
and  spirit  and  idea,  who  has  flamed  in  my  presence 


42         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

and  died  into  departure.  I  cannot  see  why  we  do 
not  feel  this  sense  of  emptiness  whenever  we  leave 
one  another.  Would  you  not  think  that  it  would 
be  so  with  us  who  live  above  the  abyss  and  below 
the  uttermost  spaces  ?  It  is  not  so,  and  there  are 
those  from  whose  presence  I  long  to  be  gone  in  a 
discomfort  which  is  a  kind  of  orison  of  my  soul  to 
my  body  to  hurry  away.  It  is  so  that  I  long  to  be 
gone  from  that  little  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson, 
and  of  this  I  am  sorely  ashamed.  But  I  think  that 
all  such  dissonance  is  merely  a  failure  in  method, 
and  that  the  spirit  of  this  business  of  being  is  that 
we  long  for  one  another  to  be  near. 

Yes,  in  "  this  world  of  visible  images  "  and  pat- 
terns and  schedules  and  o'clocks,  it  is  like  stumbling 
on  the  true  game  to  come  on  some  one  who  is  not  on 
any  dial.  And  I  fancy  that  Miggy  is  no  o'clock. 
She  is  not  Dawn  o'clock,  because  already  she  has 
lived  so  much ;  nor  Noon  o'clock,  because  she  is 
far  from  her  high  moment ;  nor  is  she  Dusk  o'clock, 
because  she  is  so  poignantly  alive.  Rather,  she  is 
like  the  chimes  of  a  clock  —  which  do  not  tell  the 
time,  but  which  almost  say  something  else. 


IV 

SPLENDOUR    TOWN 

LAST  night  I  went  for  a  walk  across  the  river, 
and  Little  Child  went  with  me  to  the  other  end  of 
the  bridge. 

I  would  have  expected  it  to  be  impossible  to  come 
to  the  fourth  chapter  and  to  have  said  nothing  of 
the  river.  But  the  reason  is  quite  clear:  for  the 
setting  of  the  stories  of  the  village  as  I  know  them 
is  preeminently  rambling  streets  and  trim  door- 
yards,  and  neat  interiors  with  tidy  centre-tables. 
Nature  is  merely  the  necessary  opera-house,  not  the 
intimate  setting.  Nature's  speech  through  the  trees 
is  most  curiously  taken  for  granted  as  being  trees 
alone,  and  she  is,  as  I  have  shown,  sometimes  cut 
off  quite  rudely  in  the  midst  of  an  elm  or  linden 
sentence  and  curtly  interrupted  by  a  sidewalk.  If  a 
grove  of  trees  is  allowed  to  remain  in  a  north  door- 
yard  it  is  almost  certainly  because  the  trees  break 
the  wind.  Likewise,  Nature's  unfoldings  in  our  turf 
and  clover  we  incline  to  regard  as  merely  lawns,  the 
results  of  seeds  and  autumn  fertilizing.  Our  vines 

43 


44         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

are  for  purposes  of  shade,  cheaper  and  prettier  than 
awnings  or  porch  rollers.  With  our  gardens,  where 
our  "  table  vegetables  "  are  grown,  Nature  is,  I  think, 
considered  to  have  little  or  nothing  to  do ;  and  we 
openly  pride  ourselves  on  our  early  this  and  our 
prodigious  that,  quite  as  when  we  cut  a  dress  or 
build  a  lean-to.  We  admit  the  rain  or  the  sunny 
slope  into  partnership,  but  what  we  recognize  is 
weather  rather  than  the  mighty  spirit  of  motherhood 
in  Nature.  Indeed,  our  flower  gardens,  where  are 
wrought  such  miracles  of  poppies  and  pinks,  are  per- 
haps the  only  threshold  on  which  we  stand  abashed, 
as  at  the  sound  of  a  singing  voice,  a  voice  that  sings 
believing  itself  to  be  alone. 

These  things  being  so,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
river  has  been  for  so  long  no  integral  part  of  village 
life.  The  river  is  accounted  a  place  to  fish,  a  place 
to  bathe,  a  thing  to  cross  to  get  to  the  other  side, 
an  objective  point  —  including  the  new  iron  bridge 
-to  which  to  take  guests.  But  of  the  everyday 
life  it  is  no  proper  part.  On  the  contrary,  the  other 
little  river,  which  strikes  out  silverly  for  itself  to 
eastward,  is  quite  a  personality  in  the  village,  for  on 
it  is  a  fine  fleet  of  little  launches  with  which  folk 
take  delight.  But  this  river  of  mine  to  the  west  is 
a  thing  of  whims  and  eddies  and  shifting  sand  bars, 
and  here  not  many  boats  adventure.  So  the  river  is 
accepted  as  a  kind  of  pleasant  hermit  living  on  the 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  45 

edge  of  the  village.  It  draws  few  of  us  as  Nature 
can  draw  to  herself.  We  know  the  water  as  a  taste 
only  and  not  yet  as  an  emotion.  We  say  that  we 
should  enjoy  going  there  if  we  had  the  time.  I 
know,  I  know.  You  see  that  we  do  not  yet  live  the 
river,  as  an  ancient  people  would  live  their  moor. 
But  in  our  launches,  our  camping  parties,  our 
flights  to  a  little  near  lake  for  dinner,  in  a  tent  here 
and  a  swing  there,  set  to  face  riverward,  there  lies 
the  thrill  of  process,  and  by  these  things  Nature  is 
wooing  us  surely  to  her  heart.  Already  the  Pump 
pasture  has  for  us  the  quality  of  individuality,  and 
we  have  picnics  there  and  speak  of  the  pasture 
almost  as  of  a  host.  Presently  we  shall  be  com- 
panioned by  all  our  calm  stretches  of  meadow,  our 
brown  sand  bars,  our  Caledonia  hills,  our  quiet 
lakes,  our  unnavigable  river,  as  the  Northmen  were 
fellowed  of  the  sea. 

Little  Child  has  at  once  a  wilder  and  a  tamer 
instinct.  She  has  this  fellowship  and  the  fellowship 
of  more. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  to-day  ? "  I  ask  her,  and 
she  always  says,  "Far  away  for  a  party"  —  in  a 
combination,  it  would  seem,  of  the  blood  of  shepherd 
kings  with  certain  corpuscles  of  modernity.  And 
when  we  are  in  the  woods  she  instances  the  same 
dual  quality  by,  "  Now  let's  sit  down  in  a  roll  and 
wait  for  a  fairy,  and  be  a  society." 


46         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

We  always  go  along  the  levee.  Little  Child  and 
I,  and  I  watch  the  hour  have  its  way  with  her,  and 
I  do  not  deny  that  occasionally  I  try  to  improve  on 
the  hour  by  a  tale  of  magic  or  by  the  pastime  of 
teaching  her  a  lyric.  I  love  to  hear  her  pretty 
treble  in  "Who  is  Sylvia?  What  is  she?"  and 
"  She  dwelt  among  th'  untrodden  ways,"  and 
"April,  April,  laugh  thy  girlish  laughter,"  and  in 
Pippa's  song.  Last  night,  to  be  sure,  the  lyrics 
rather  gave  way  to  some  talk  about  the  circus  to  be 
to-day,  an  unwonted  benison  on  the  village.  But 
even  the  reality  of  the  circus  could  not  long  keep 
Little  Child  from  certain  sweet  vagaries,  and  I  love 
best  to  hear  her  in  these  fancyings. 

"  Here,"  she  said  to  me  last  night,  "  is  her 
sponge." 

I  had  no  need  to  ask  whose  sponge.  We  are  al- 
ways rinding  the  fairy's  cast-off  ornaments  and  articles 
of  toilet.  On  occasion  we  have  found  her  crown, 
her  comb,  her  scarf,  her  powder-puff,  her  cup,  her 
plumed  fan,  her  parasol — a  skirtful  of  fancies  which 
next  day  Little  Child  has  brought  to  me  in  a  shoe 
box  for  safe  keeping  so  that  "  They  "  would  not 
throw  the  things  away  :  that  threatening  "  They  " 
which  overhangs  childhood,  casting  away  its  treas- 
ures, despoiling  its  fastnesses,  laying  a  ladder  straight 
through  a  distinct  and  recognizable  fairy  ring  in  the 
back  yard.  I  can  visualize  that  "  They "  as  I 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  47 

believe  it  seems  to  some  children,  something  dark 
and  beetling  and  menacing  and  imminent,  less  like 
the  Family  than  like  Fate.  Is  it  not  sad  that  this 
precious  idea  of  the  Family,  to  conserve  which  is 
one  of  our  chief  hopes,  should  so  often  be  made  to 
appear  to  its  youngest  member  in  the  general  sem- 
blance of  a  phalanx? 

We  sat  down  for  a  little  at  the  south  terminal  of 
the  bridge,  where  a  steep  bank  and  a  few  desperately 
clinging  trees  have  arranged  a  little  shrine  to  the 
sunset.  It  was  sunset  then.  All  the  way  across 
the  bridge  I  had  been  watching  against  the  gold  the 
majestic  or  apathetic  or  sodden  profiles  of  the  farm- 
ers jogging  homeward  on  empty  carts,  not  one  face, 
it  had  chanced,  turned  to  the  west  even  to  utilize  it 
to  forecast  the  weather.  Such  a  procession  I  want 
to  see  painted  upon  a  sovereign  sky  and  called 
"  The  Sunset."  I  want  to  have  painted  a  giant 
carpenter  of  the  village  as  I  once  saw  him,  his  great 
bare  arms  upholding  a  huge  white  pillar,  while  blue 
figures  hung  above  and  set  the  acanthus  capital. 
And  there  is  a  picture,  too,  in  the  dull  red  of  the 
butcher's  cart  halted  in  snow  while  a  tawny-jersey ed 
boy  lifts  high  his  yellow  light  to  find  a  parcel. 
Some  day  we  shall  see  these  things  in  their  own 
surprising  values  and  fresco  our  village  libraries  with 
them  —  yes,  and  our  drug  stores,  too. 

The  story  that  I  told  Little  Child  while  we  rested 


48          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE    STORIES 

had  the  symbolism  which  I  often  choose  for  her : 
that  of  a  girl  keeping  a  garden  for  the  coming  of 
a  child.  All  her  life  she  has  been  making  ready 
and  nothing  has  been  badly  done.  In  one  green 
room  of  the  garden  she  has  put  fair  thoughts,  in 
another  fair  words,  and  in  the  innermost  fastnesses 
of  the  garden  fair  deeds.  Here  she  has  laid  colour, 
there  sweet  sound,  there  something  magic  which  is 
a  special  kind  of  seeing.  When  the  child  comes, 
these  things  will  be  first  toys,  then  tools,  then  weap- 
ons. Sometimes  the  old  witch  of  the  wood  tries  to 
blow  into  the  garden  a  thistle  of  discord  or  bubbles 
of  delight  to  be  followed,  and  these  must  be  warded 
away.  All  day  the  spirit  of  the  child  to  come  wan- 
ders through  the  garden,  telling  the  girl  what  to  do 
here  or  here,  keeping  her  from  guile  or  from  idle- 
ness-without-dreams.  She  knows  its  presence  and 
I  think  that  she  has  even  named  it.  If  it  shall  be 
a  little  girl,  then  it  is  to  be  Dagmar,  Mother  of 
Day,  or  Dawn ;  but  if  a  little  boy,  then  it  shall  be 
called  for  one  whom  she  has  not  yet  seen.  Meanwhile, 
outside  the  door  of  the  garden  many  would  speak 
with  the  girl.  On  these  she  looks,  sometimes  she 
even  leans  from  her  casement,  and  once,  it  may  be, 
she  reaches  out  her  hand,  ever  so  swiftly,  and  some 
one  without  there  touches  it.  But  at  that  she 
snatches  back  her  hand  and  bars  the  garden,  and 
for  a  time  the  spirit  of  the  little  child  does  not 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  49 

come  very  near.  So  she  goes  serenely  on  toward 
the  day  when  a  far  horn  sounds  and  somebody 
comes  down  the  air  from  heaven,  as  it  has  occurred 
to  nobody  else  to  do.  And  they  hear  the  voice  of 
the  little  child,  singing  in  the  garden. 

"The  girl  is  me/'  says  little  Little  Child,  as  she 
always  says  when  I  have  finished  this  story. 

«  Yes,"  I  tell  her. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  that  garden,"  she  says  thought- 
fully. 

Then  I  show  her  the  village  in  the  trees  of  the 
other  shore,  roof  upon  roof  pricked  by  a  slim 
steeple ;  for  that  is  the  garden. 

"  I  don't  care  about  just  bein*  good,"  she  says, 
"  but  I'd  like  to  housekeep  that  garden." 

"  For  a  sometime-little-child  of  your  own,"  I  tell 
her. 

"  Yes,"  she  assents,  "  an*  make  dresses  for." 

I  cannot  understand  how  mothers  let  them  grow 
up  not  knowing,  these  little  mothers-to-be  who  so 
often  never  guess  their  vocation.  It  is  a  reason  for 
everything  commonly  urged  on  the  ground  of  con- 
duct, a  ground  so  lifeless  to  youth.  But  quicken 
every  desert  space  with  "It  must  be  done  so  for  the 
sake  of  the  little  child  you  will  have  some  day,"  and 
there  rises  a  living  spirit.  Morals,  civics,  town  and 
home  economics,  learning  —  there  is  the  concrete 
reason  for  them  all;  and  the  abstract  understanding 


50          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

of  these  things  for  their  own  sakes  will  follow,  flower- 
wise,  fruit-wise,  for  the  healing  of  the  times. 

I  had  told  to  that  old  Aunt  Effie  who  keeps 
house  for  Miggy  and  Little  Child  something  of 
what  I  thought  to  do  —  breaking  in  upon  the  old 
woman's  talk  of  linoleum  and  beans  and  other  things 
having,  so  to  say,  one  foot  in  the  universe. 

"  Goodness/'  that  old  woman  had  answered,  with 
her  worried  turn  of  head,  "I'm  real  glad  you're 
going  to  be  here.  /  dread  saying  anything" 

Here  too  we  must  look  to  the  larger  day  when 
the  state  shall  train  for  parenthood  and  for  citizen- 
ship, when  the  schools  and  the  universities  shall 
speak  for  the  state  the  cosmic  truths,  and  when  by 
comparison  botany  and  differential  calculus  shall  be 
regarded  as  somewhat  less  vital  in  ushering  in  the 
kingdom  of  God. 

The  water  reservoir  rose  slim  against  the  woods 
to  the  north ;  to  the  south  was  a  crouching  hop 
house  covered  with  old  vines.  I  said  to  Little 
Child :  — 

"  Look  everywhere  and  tell  me  where  you  think 
a  princess  would  live  if  she  lived  here." 

She  looked  everywhere  and  answered:  — 

"  In  the  water  tower  in  those  woods." 

"And  where  would  the  old  witch  live  ?  "  I  asked 
her. 

"  In  the  Barden's  hop  house,"  she  answered. 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  51 

cc  And  where  would  the  spirit  of  the  little  child 
be  ?  "  I  tested  her. 

She  looked  long  out  across  the  water. 

"  I  think  in  the  sunset,"  she  said  at  last.  And 
then  of  her  own  will  she  said  over  the  Sunset  Spell 
I  have  taught  her  :  — 

"  I  love  to  stand  in  this  great  air 
And  see  the  sun  go  down. 
It  shows  me  a  bright  veil  to  wear 
And  such  a  pretty  gown. 
Oh,  I  can  see  a  playmate  there 
Far  up  in  Splendour  Town." 

I  could  hardly  bear  to  let  her  go  home,  but  eight 
o'clock  is  very  properly  Little  Child's  bedtime,  and 
so  I  sent  her  across  the  bridge  waving  her  hand 
every  little  way  in  that  fashion  of  children  who,  I 
think,  are  hoping  thus  to  save  the  moment  that  has 
just  died.  I  have  known  times  when  I,  too,  have 
wanted  to  wave  my  hand  at  a  moment  and  keep  it 
looking  at  me  as  long  as  possible.  But  presently 
the  moment  almost  always  turned  away. 

Last  night  I  half  thought  that  the  sunset  itself 
would  like  to  have  stayed.  It  went  so  delicately 
about  its  departure,  taking  to  itself  first  a  shawl  of  soft 
dyes,  then  a  painted  scarf,  then  frail  iris  wings.  It 
mounted  far  up  the  heavens,  testing  its  strength  for 
flight  and  shaking  brightness  from  its  garments. 
And  it  slipped  lingeringly  away  as  if  the  riot  of 


52          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

colour  were  after  all  the  casual  part,  and  the  real 
business  of  the  moment  were  to  stay  on  with  every- 
body. In  the  tenuity  of  the  old  anthropomorphisms 
I  marvel  that  they  did  not  find  the  sunset  a  living 
thing,  tender  of  mortals,  forever  loth  to  step  from 
out  one  moment  into  the  cherishing  arms  of  the 
next.  Think  !  The  sunset  that  the  Greeks  knew 
has  been  flaming  round  the  world,  dying  from  mo- 
ment to  moment  and  from  mile  to  mile,  with  no 
more  of  pause  than  the  human  heart,  since  sunset 
flamed  for  Hero  and  Helen  and  Ariadne. 

If  the  sunset  was  made  for  lovers,  and  in  our  mid- 
land summers  lingers  on  their  account,  then  last 
night  it  was  lingering  partly  for  Miggy  and  Peter. 
At  the  end  of  the  bridge  I  came  on  them  together. 

Miggy  did  not  flush  when  she  saw  me,  and  though 
I  would  not  have  expected  that  she  would  flush  I 
was  yet  disappointed.  I  take  an  old-fashioned  de- 
light in  women  whose  high  spirit  is  compatible  with 
a  sensibility  which  causes  them  the  little  agonizings 
proper  to  this  moment,  and  to  that. 

But  Miggy  introduced  Peter  with  all  composure. 

"  This,"  she  said,  "  is  Peter.  His  last  name  is 
Gary." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Peter  ?  "  I  said  very  heartily. 

I  thought  that  Peter  did  something  the  rationale 
of  which  might  have  been  envied  of  courts.  He 
turned  to  Miggy  and  said  "  Thank  you."  Secretly 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  53 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  embarrassment.  In  a 
certain  milieu  social  shyness  is  as  authentic  a  patent 
of  perception  as  in  another  milieu  is  taste. 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  I  besought  them.  "  We 
can  find  cake.  We  can  make  lemonade.  We  can 
do  some  reading  aloud."  For  I  will  not  ask  the  mere 
cake  and  lemonade  folk  to  my  house.  They  must 
be,  in  addition,  good  or  wise  or  not  averse  to  becom- 
ing either. 

I  conceived  Peter's  evident  agony  to  rise  from 
his  need  to  reply.  Instead,  it  rose  from  his  need  to 
refuse. 

"  I  take  my  violin  lesson,"  he  explained  miserably. 

"He  takes  his  violin  lesson,"  Miggy  added,  with 
a  pretty,  somewhat  maternal  manner  of  translating. 
I  took  note  of  this  faint  manner  of  proprietorship, 
for  it  is  my  belief  that  when  a  woman  assumes  it  she 
means  more  than  she  knows  that  she  means. 

"  I'm  awful  sorry,"  said  Peter,  from  his  heart ;  "  I 
was  just  having  to  go  back  this  minute." 

"  To-morrow's  his  regular  lesson  day,"  Miggy 
explained,  "  but  to-morrow  he's  going  to  take  me 
to  the  circus,  so  he  has  his  lesson  to-night.  Go 
on,"  she  added,  "  you'll  be  late  and  you'll  have  to 
pay  just  the  same  anyway."  I  took  note  of  this 
frank  fashion  of  protection  of  interests,  for  it  is 
my  belief  that  matters  are  advancing  when  the  lady 
practises  economics  in  courtship.  But  I  saw  that 


54         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Miggy  was  manifesting  no  symptoms  of  accompany- 
ing Peter,  and  I  begged  them  not  to  let  me  spoil 
their  walk. 

"  It's  all  right,"  Miggy  said  ;  "  he'll  have  to  hurry 
and  I  don't  want  to  go  in  yet  anyway.  I'll  walk  back 
with  you."  And  of  this  I  took  note  with  less  satis- 
faction. It  was  as  if  Miggy  had  not  come  alive. 

Peter  smiled  at  us,  caught  off  his  hat,  and  went 
away  with  it  in  his  hand,  and  the  moment  that  he 
left  my  presence  he  became  another  being.  I  could 
see  by  his  back  that  he  was  himself,  free  again,  under 
no  bondage  of  manner.  It  is  a  terrific  problem,  this 
enslavement  of  speech  and  trivial  conduct  which  to 
some  of  us  provides  a  pleasant  medium  and  for  some 
of  us  furnishes  fetters.  When  will  they  manage  a 
wireless  society  ?  I  am  tired  waiting.  For  be  it  a 
pleasant  medium  or  be  it  fetters,  the  present  com- 
munication keeps  us  all  apart.  "  I  hope,"  I  said 
once  at  dinner,  "that  I  shall  be  living  when  they  think 
they  get  the  first  sign  from  Mars."  "  I  hope,"  said 
my  companion,  "  that  I  shall  be  living  when  I  think  I 
get  the  first  sign  from  you — and  you — and  you, 
about  this  table."  If  this  young  Shelley  could 
really  have  made  some  sign,  what  might  it  not 
have  been  ? 

"  Everybody's  out  walking  to-night,"  Miggy  ob- 
served. "  There's  Liva  Vesey  and  Timothy  Top- 
lady  ahead  of  us." 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  55 

"  They  are  going  to  be  married,  are  they  not  ? " 
I  asked. 

Miggy  looked  as  if  I  had  said  something  indelicate. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  not  out  loud  yet." 

Then,  fearing  that  she  had  rebuked  me,  "  He's 
going  to  take  her  to  the  circus  to-morrow  in  their 
new  buckboard,"  she  volunteered.  And  I  find  in 
Friendship  that  the  circus  is  accounted  a  kind  of 
official  trysting-place  for  all  sweethearts. 

We  kept  a-  little  way  back  of  the  lovers,  the  sun 
making  Liva  Vesey's  pink  frock  like  a  vase-shaped 
lamp  of  rose.  Timothy  was  looking  down  at  her 
and  straightway  looking  away  again  when  Liva  had 
summoned  her  courage  to  look  up.  They  were 
extremely  pleasant  to  watch,  but  this  Miggy  did  not 
know  and  she  was  intent  upon  me.  She  had  met 
Little  Child  running  home. 

"  She's  nice  to  take  a  walk  with,"  Miggy  said ; 
"  but  I  like  to  walk  around  by  myself  too.  Only 
to-night  Peter  came." 

"  Miggy,"  said  I,  "  I  want  to  congratulate  you 
that  Peter  is  in  love  with  you." 

She  looked  up  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"  Why,  that  was  nothing,"  she  said  ;  "  he  seemed 
to  do  it  real  easy." 

"  But  it  is  not  easy,"  I  assured  her,  "  to  find  many 
such  fine  young  fellows  as  Peter  seems  to  be.  I 
hope  you  will  be  very  happy  together." 


56          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  I'm  not  engaged,"  said  Miggy,  earnestly;  "  Fm 
only  invited/' 

"  Ah,  well,"  I  said,  "  if  I  may  be  allowed  —  I  hope 
you  are  not  sending  regrets." 

Miggy  laughed  out  suddenly. 

"  Married  isn't  like  a  party,"  she  said ;  "  I  know 
that  much  about  society.  Party  you  either  accept 
or  regret.  Married  you  do  both." 

I  could  have  been  no  more  amazed  if  the  rose- 
wood clock  had  said  it. 

"  Who  has  been  talking  to  you,  child  ? "  I  asked 
in  distress. 

"  I  got  it  out  of  living,"  said  Miggy,  solemnly. 
"  You  live  along  and  you  live  along  and  you  find  out 
'most  everything." 

I  looked  away  across  the  Pump  pasture  where  the 
railway  tracks  cut  the  Plank  Road,  that  comes  on 
and  on  until  it  is  modified  into  Daphne  Street.  I  re- 
membered a  morning  of  mist  and  dogwood  when 
I  had  walked  that  road  through  the  gateway  into  an 
earthly  paradise.  Have  I  not  said  that  since  that 
time  we  two  have  been,  as  it  were,  set  to  music  and 
sung ;  so  that  the  silences  of  separation  are  difficult  to 
beguile  save  by  the  companionship  of  the  village  — 
the  village  that  has  somehow  taught  Miggy  its  bour- 
geoise  lesson  of  doubt? 

My  silence  laid  on  her  some  vague  burden  of 
proof. 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  57 

"  Besides,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  like  the  women 
who  marry  people.  Most  of  'em  that's  married 
ain't  all  married,  anyway." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  They're  not,"  protested  Miggy.  "  They  marry 
like  they  pick  out  a  way  to  have  a  dress  made  when 
they  don't  admire  any  of  the  styles  very  much,  and 
they've  wore  out  everything  else.  Women  like 
some  things  about  somebody,  and  that  much  they 
marry.  Then  the  rest  of  him  never  is  married  at 
all,  and  by  and  by  that  rest  starts  to  get  lonesome." 

"  But  Miggy,"  I  said  to  all  this,  "  I  should  think 
you  might  like  Peter  entirely." 

She  surprised  me  by  her  seriousness. 

"Anyhow,  I've  got  my  little  sister  to  bring  up," 
she  said ;  "  Aunt  Effie  hasn't  anything.  And  I 
couldn't  put  two  on  him  to  support." 

I  wondered  why  not,  but  I  said  nothing. 

"  And  besides,"  Miggy  said  after  a  pause,  "there's 
Peter's  father.  You  know  about  him  ?  " 

I  did  know  —  who  in  the  village  did  not  know  ? 
Since  my  neighbour  had  told  me  of  him  I  had  my- 
self seen  him  singing  through  the  village  streets, 
shouting  out  and  disturbing  the  serene  evenings, 
drunken,  piteous.  .  .  . 

"  Peter  has  him  all  the  time,"  I  suggested. 

She  must  have  found  a  hint  of  resistance  in  my 
voice,  for  her  look  questioned  me. 


58          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  I  never  could  stand  it  to  have  anybody  like  that 
in  the  house/'she  said  defensively.  "  I've  told  Peter. 
I've  told  him  both  reasons.  .  .  .  "  Miggy  threw  out 
her  arms  and  stood  still,  facing  the  sunset.  "  Any- 
way, I  want  to  keep  on  feeling  all  free  and  liberty- 
like  !  "  she  said. 

This  intense  individualism  of  youth,  passioning 
only  for  far  spaces,  taking  no  account  of  the  com- 
mon lot  nor  as  yet  urgent  to  share  it  is,  like  the 
panther  grace  in  the  tread  of  the  cat,  a  survival  of 
the  ancient  immunity  from  accountabilities.  To 
note  it  is  to  range  down  the  evolution  of  ages.  To 
tame  it  —  there  is  a  task  for  all  the  servants  of  the 
new  order. 

Miggy  was  like  some  little  bright  creature  caught 
unaware  in  the  net  of  living  and  still  remembering 
the  colonnades  of  otherwhere,  renowned  for  their 
shining.  She  was  looking  within  the  sunset,  where 
it  was  a  thing  of  wings  and  doors  ajar  and  fair  cor- 
ridors. I  saw  the  great  freedoms  of  sunset  in  her 
face  —  the  sunset  where  Little  Child  and  I  had 
agreed  that  a  certain  spirit  lived.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was 
that  that  little  vagrant  spirit  signalled  to  me  —  and 
the  Custodian  understood  it.  Perhaps  it  was  that  1 
saw,  beneath  the  freedoms,  the  woman-tenderness 
in  the  girl's  face.  In  any  case  I  spoke  abruptly 
and  half  without  intention. 

"  But  you  don't  want  to  be  free  from  Little  Child. 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  59 

It  is  almost  as  if  she  were  your  little  girl,  is  it  not?" 
I  said. 

Miggy's  eyes  did  not  leave  the  sunset.  It  was 
rather  as  if  she  saw  some  answer  there. 

"  Well,  I  like  to  pretend  she  is,"  she  said  simply. 

"  That,"  I  said  quietly,  "  is  pleasant  to  pretend." 

And  now  her  mood  had  changed  as  if  some  one 
had  come  to  take  her  place. 

"But  if  she  was  —  that,"  she  said,  "her  name, 
then,  would  most  likely  be  Margaret,  like  mine, 
wouldn't  it  ? " 

"  It  would  be  very  well  to  have  it  Margaret," 
I  agreed. 

Her  step  was  quickened  as  by  sudden  shyness. 

"  It's  funny  to  think  about,"  she  said.  "  Some- 
times I  most  think  of —  her,  till  she  seems  in  the 
room.  Not  quite  my  sister.  I  mean  Margaret" 

It  made  my  heart  beat  somewhat.  I  wondered 
if  anything  of  my  story  to  Little  Child  was  left  in 
my  mind,  and  if  subconsciously  Miggy  was  reading 
it.  This  has  sometimes  happened  to  me  with  a 
definiteness  which  would  be  surprising  if  the  super- 
natural were  to  me  less  natural.  But  I  think  that 
it  was  merely  because  Miggy  had  no  idea  of  the 
sanctity  of  what  she  felt  that  she  was  speaking  of  it. 

"  How  does  she  look  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Like  me,"  said  Miggy,  readily  ;  "  I  don't  want 
her  to  either.  I  want  her  to  be  pretty  and  I'm 


60          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

not.  But  when  I  think  of  her  running  'round  in 
the  house  or  on  the  street,  I  always  make  her  look 
like  me.  Only  little." 

"Running  'round  in  the  house."  That  was  the 
way  my  neighbour  had  put  it.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
way  that  every  woman  puts  it. 

"  Does  she  seem  like  you,  too  ? "  I  tempted  her 
on. 

"  Oh,  better,"  Miggy  said  confidently  ;  "  learning 
to  play  on  the  piano  and  not  much  afraid  of  folks 
and  real  happy." 

"  Don't  you  ever  pretend  about  a  boy  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said;  " if  I  do  — I  never  can  think 
him  out  real  plain.  Margaret  I  can  most  see." 

And  this,  too,  was  like  the  girl  in  the  garden  and 
the  spirit  of  that  one  to  be  called  by  a  name  of  one 
whom  she  had  not  seen. 

I  think  that  I  have  never  hoped  so  much  that  I 
might  know  the  right  thing  to  say.  And  when  most 
I  wish  this  I  do  as  I  did  then :  I  keep  my  impulse 
silent  and  I  see  if  that  vague  Custodian  within,  some- 
where between  the  seeing  and  the  knowing,  will  not 
speak  for  me.  I  wonder  if  she  did  ?  At  all  events, 
what  either  she  or  I  said  was  :  — 

"  Miggy !  Look  everywhere  and  tell  me  the 
most  beautiful  thing  you  can  see." 

She  was  not  an  instant  in  deciding. 


SPLENDOUR   TOWN  61 

"  Why,  sunset,"  she  said. 

"  Promise  me,"  said  I  —  said  we  !  —  "that  you  will 
remember  Now.  And  that  after  to-night,  when  you 
see  a  sunset  —  always,  always,  till  she  comes  —  you 
will  think  about  her.  About  Margaret." 

Because  this  caught  her  fancy  she  promised  readily 
enough.  And  then  we  lingered  a  little,  while  the 
moment  gave  up  its  full  argosy.  I  have  a  fancy  for 
these  times  when  I  say  "  I  will  remember,"  and  I 
am  always  selecting  them  and  knowing,  as  if  I  had 
tied  a  knot  in  them,  that  I  will  remember.  These 
times  become  the  moments  at  which  I  keep  waving 
my  hand  in  the  hope  that  they  will  never  turn  away. 
And  it  was  this  significance  which  I  wished  the  hour 
to  have  for  Miggy,  so  that  for  her  the  sunset  should 
forever  hold,  as  Little  Child  had  said  that  it  holds, 
that  tiny,  wandering  spirit.  .  .  . 

Liva  Vesey  and  Timothy  had  lingered,  too,  and 
we  passed  them  on  the  bridge,  he  still  trying  to  win 
her  eyes,  and  his  own  eyes  fleeing  precipitantly  when- 
ever she  looked  up.  The  two  seemed  leaning  upon 
the  winged  light,  the  calm  stretches  of  the  Pump 
pasture,  the  brown  sand  bar,  the  Caledonia  hills. 
And  the  lovers  and  the  quiet  river  and  the  village, 
roof  upon  roof,  in  the  trees  of  the  other  shore,  and 
most  of  all  Miggy  and  her  shadowy  Margaret  seemed 
to  me  like  the  words  of  some  mighty  cosmic  utter- 
ance, with  the  country  evening  for  its  tranquil  voice. 


DIFFERENT 

THOSC  who  had  expected  the  circus  procession  to 
arrive  from  across  the  canal  to-day  were  amazed  to  ob- 
serve it  filing  silently  across  the  tracks  from  the  Plank 
Road.  The  Eight  Big  Shows  Combined  had  ar- 
rived in  the  gray  dawn ;  and  word  had  not  yet  gone 
the  rounds  that,  the  Fair  Ground  being  too  wet,  the 
performance  would  "  show "  in  the  Pump  pasture, 
beyond  the  mill.  There  was  to  be  no  evening 
amusement.  It  was  a  wait  between  trains  that  con- 
ferred the  circus  on  Friendship  at  all. 

Half  the  country-side,  having  brought  its  lunch 
into  town  to  make  a  day  of  it,  trailed  as  a  matter  of 
course  after  the  clown's  cart  at  the  end  of  the  parade, 
and  about  noon  arrived  in  the  pasture  with  the 
pleasurable  sense  of  entering  familiar  territory  to 
find  it  transformed  into  unknown  ground.  Who  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  village  had  not  known  the  Pump 
pasture  of  old?  Haunted  of  Jerseys  and  Guernseys 
and  orioles,  it  had  lain  expressionless  as  the  hills, 

62 


DIFFERENT  63 

for  as  long  as  memory.  When  in  spring,  "  Where 
you  goin'  ?  Don't  you  go  far  in  the  hot  sun  !  "  from 
Friendship  mothers  was  answered  by,  "  We're  just 
goin'  up  to  the  Pump  pasture  for  vi'lets "  from 
Friendship  young,  no  more  was  to  be  said.  The 
pasture  was  as  dependable  as  a  nurse,  as  a  great, 
faithful  Newfoundland  dog ;  and  about  it  was  some- 
thing of  the  safety  of  silence  and  warmth  and  night- 
in-a-trundle-bed. 

And  lo,  now  it  was  suddenly  as  if  the  pasture 
were  articulate.  The  great  elliptical  tent,  the 
strange  gold  chariots  casually  disposed,  the  air  of  the 
hurrying  men,  so  amazingly  used  to  what  they  were 
doing  —  these  gave  to  the  place  the  aspect  of  having 
from  the  first  been  secretly  familiar  with  more  than 
one  had  suspected. 

"Ain't  it  the  divil  ? "  demanded  Timothy  Top- 
lady,  Jr.,  ecstatically,  as  the  glory  of  the  scene  burst 
upon  him. 

Liva  Vesey,  in  rose-pink  cambric,  beside  him  in 
the  buckboard,  looked  up  at  his  brown  Adam's 
apple  —  she  hardly  ever  lifted  her  shy  eyes  as  far  as 
her  sweetheart's  face  —  and  rejoined: — 

"  Oh,  Timmie  !  ain't  it  just  what  you  might  say 
great  ?  " 

"  You'd  better  believe,"  said  Timothy,  solemnly, 
"  that  it  is  that." 

He  looked  down  in  her  face  with  a  lifting  of  eye- 


64         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

brows  and  an  honest  fatuity  of  mouth.  Liva  Vesey 
knew  the  look  —  without  ever  having  met  it  squarely, 
she  could  tell  when  it  was  there,  and  she  promptly 
turned  her  head,  displaying  to  Timothy's  ardent 
eyes  tight  coils  of  beautiful  blond,  crinkly  hair,  a 
little  ear,  and  a  line  of  white  throat  with  a  silver 
locket  chain.  At  which  Timothy  now  collapsed 
with  the  mien  of  a  man  who  is  unwillingly  having 
second  thoughts. 

"  My  !  "  he  said. 

They  drove  into  the  meadow,  and  when  the  horse 
had  been  loosed  and  cared  for,  they  found  a  great 
cottonwood  tree,  its  leaves  shimmering  and  moving 
like  little  banners,  and  there  they  spread  their  lunch. 
The  sunny  slope  was  dotted  with  other  lunchers. 
The  look  of  it  all  was  very  gay,  partly  because  the 
trees  were  in  June  green,  and  among  them  wind- 
mills were  whirling  like  gaunt  and  acrobatic  witches, 
and  partly  because  it  was  the  season  when  the 
women  were  brave  in  new  hats,  very  pink  and  very 
perishable. 

The  others  observed  the  two  good-humouredly 
from  afar,  and  once  or  twice  a  tittering  group  of 
girls,  unescorted,  passed  the  cottonwood  tree,  mak- 
ing elaborate  detours  to  avoid  it.  At  which  Liva 
flushed,  pretending  not  to  notice ;  and  Timothy 
looked  wistfully  in  her  face  to  see  if  she  wished  that 
she  had  not  come  with  him.  However,  Timothy 


DIFFERENT  65 

never  dared  look  at  her  long  enough  to  find  out 
anything  at  all ;  for  the  moment  that  she  seemed 
about  to  meet  his  look  he  always  dropped  his  eyes 
precipitantly  to  her  little  round  chin  and  so  to  the 
silver  chain  and  locket.  And  then  he  was  miser- 
able. 

It  was  strange  that  a  plain  heart-shaped  locket, 
having  no  initials,  could  make  a  man  so  utterly, 
extravagantly  unhappy.  Three  months  earlier, 
Liva,  back  from  a  visit  in  the  city,  had  appeared 
with  her  locket.  Up  to  that  time  the  only  person- 
ality in  which  Timothy  had  ever  indulged  was  to 
mention  to  her  that  her  eyes  were  the  colour  of  his 
sister's  eyes,  whose  eyes  were  the  colour  of  their 
mother's  eyes  and  their  father's  eyes,  and  of  Timo- 
thy's own,  and  "  Our  eyes  match,  mine  and  yours," 
he  had  blurted  out,  crimson.  And  yet,  even  on 
these  terms,  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  being 
wretched  because  of  her.  How  much  more  now 
when  he  was  infinitely  nearer  to  her  ?  For  with 
the  long  spring  evenings  upon  them,  when  he  had 
sat  late  at  the  Vesey  farm,  matters  had  so  far  ad- 
vanced with  Timothy  that,  with  his  own  hand,  he 
had  picked  a  green  measuring-worm  from  Liva's 
throat.  Every  time  he  looked  at  her  throat  he 
thought  of  that  worm  with  rapture.  But  also  every 
time  he  looked  at  her  throat  he  saw  the  silver 
chain  and  locket.  And  on  circus  day,  if  the  oracles 


66         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

seemed  auspicious,  he  meant  to  find  out  whose 
picture  was  worn  in  that  locket,  even  though  the 
knowledge  made  him  a  banished  man. 

If  only  she  would  ever  mention  the  locket !  he 
thought  disconsolately  over  lunch.  If  only  she 
would  "  bring  up  the  subject,"  then  he  could  find 
courage.  But  she  never  did  mention  it.  And  the 
talk  ran  now :  — 

"  Would  you  ever,  ever  think  this  was  the  Pump 
pasture  ?  "  from  Liva. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,  would  you  ?  It  don't  look 
the  same,  does  it  ?  You'd  think  you  was  in  a  city 
or  somewheres,  wouldn't  you  now?  Ain't  it  dif- 
fer'nt  ? " 

"  Did  you  count  the  elephants  ?  " 

"  I  bet  I  did.  Didn't  you  ?  Ten,  wa'n't  it  ? 
Did  you  count  the  cages?  Neither  did  I.  And 
they  was  too  many  of  'em  shut  up.  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  much  of  a  circus  or  not  —  "  with  gloomy 
superiority  —  "  they  not  bein'  any  calliope,  so." 

"  A  good  many  cute  fellows  in  the  band,"  ob- 
served Liva.  For  Liva  would  have  teased  a  bit  if 
Timothy  would  have  teased  too.  But  Timothy  re- 
plied in  mere  misery  :  — 

"  You  can't  tell  much  about  these  circus  men, 
Liva.  They're  apt  to  be  the  kind  that  carouse 
around.  I  guess  they  ain't  much  to  'em  but  their 
swell  way." 


DIFFERENT  67 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Liva. 

Then  a  silence  fell,  resembling  nothing  so  much 
as  the  breath  of  hesitation  following  a  faux  pasy  save 
that  this  silence  was  longer,  and  was  terminated  by 
Liva  humming  a  little  snatch  of  song  to  symbolize 
how  wholly  delightful  everything  was. 

"  My  !  "  said  Timothy,  finally.  "  You  wouldn't 
think  this  was  the  Pump  pasture  at  all,  it  looks  so 
differ'nt." 

"  That's  so,"  Liva  said.     "  You  wouldn't." 

It  was  almost  as  if  the  two  were  inarticulate,  as 
the  pasture  had  been  until  the  strange  influences  of 
the  day  had  come  to  quicken  it. 

While  Liva,  with  housewifely  hands,  put  away 
the  lunch  things  in  their  basket,  Timothy  nibbled 
along  lengths  of  grass  and  hugged  his  knees  and 
gloomed  at  the  locket.  It  was  then  that  Miggy  and 
Peter  passed  them  and  the  four  greeted  one  another 
with  the  delicate,  sheepish  enjoyment  of  lovers  who 
look  on  and  understand  other  lovers.  Then  Timo- 
thy's look  went  back  to  Liva.  Liva's  rose-pink 
dress  was  cut  distractingly  without  a  collar,  and  the 
chain  seemed  to  caress  her  little  throat.  Moreover, 
the  locket  had  a  way  of  hiding  beneath  a  fold  of 
ruffle,  as  if  it  were  her  locket  and  as  if  Timothy  had 
no  share  in  it. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Liva,  "  Timmie  !  That  was  the  lion 
roared.  Did  you  hear  ?  " 


68         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Timothy  nodded  darkly,  as  if  there  were  worse 
than  lions. 

"  Wasn't  it  the  lion  ?  "  she  insisted. 

Timothy  nodded  again  ;  he  thought  it  might  have 
been  the  lion. 

"  What  you  so  glum  about,  Timmie  ?  "  his  sweet- 
heart asked,  glancing  at  him  fleetingly. 

Timothy  flushed  to  the  line  of  his  hair. 

"  Gosh,"  he  said,  "  this  here  pasture  looks  so  dif- 
fer'nt  I  can't  get  over  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Liva, "  it  does  look  difFer'nt,  don't  it?" 

Before  one  o'clock  they  drifted  with  the  rest 
toward  the  animal  tent.  They  went  incuriously 
past  the  snake  show,  the  Eats-'em-alive  show,  and 
the  Eastern  vaudeville.  But  hard  by  the  red  wagon 
where  tickets  were  sold  Timothy  halted  spellbound. 
What  he  had  heard  was  :  — 

"Types.  Types.  Right  this  way  AND  in  this 
direction  for  Types.  No,  Ladies,  and  no,  Gents : 
Not  Tin-types.  But  Photo-types.  Photographs 
put  up  in  Tintype  style  AT  Tintype  price.  Three 
for  a  quarter.  The  fourth  of  a  dozen  for  the  fourth 
of  a  dollar.  Elegant  pictures,  elegant  finish,  refined, 
up-to-date.  Of  yourself,  Gents,  of  yourself.  Or  of 
any  one  you  see  around  you.  And  WHILE  you 


wait." 


Timothy  said  it  before  he  had  any  idea  that  he 
meant  to  say  it :  — 


DIFFERENT  69 

cc  Liva,"  he  begged,  "  come  on.     You." 

When  she  understood  and  when  Timothy  saw 
the  momentary  abashment  in  her  eyes,  it  is  certain 
that  he  had  never  loved  her  more.  But  the  very 
next  moment  she  was  far  more  adorable. 

"  Not  unless  you  will,  Timmie,"  she  said,  "  and 
trade." 

He  followed  her  into  the  hot  little  tent  as  if  the 
waiting  chair  were  a  throne  of  empire.  And  per- 
haps it  was.  For  presently  Timothy  had  in  his 
pocket  a  tiny  blurry  bit  of  paper  at  which  he  had 
hardly  dared  so  much  as  glance,  and  he  had  given 
another  blurry  bit  into  her  keeping.  But  that  was 
not  all.  When  she  thanked  him  she  had  met  his 
eyes.  And  he  thought  —  oh,  no  matter  what  he 
thought.  But  it  was  as  if  there  were  established  a 
throne  of  empire  with  Timothy  lord  of  his  world. 

Then  they  stepped  along  the  green  way  of  the 
Pump  pasture  and  they  entered  the  animal  tent,  and 
Strange  Things  closed  about  them.  There  under- 
foot lay  the  green  of  the  meadow,  verdant  grass  and 
not  infrequent  moss,  plantain  and  sorrel  and  clover, 
all  as  yet  hardly  trampled  and  still  sweet  with  the 
breath  of  kine  and  sheep.  And  three  feet  above, 
foregathered  from  the  Antipodes,  crouched  and 
snarled  the  striped  and  spotted  things  of  the  wild, 
with  teeth  and  claws  quick  to  kill,  and  with  genera- 
tions of  the  jungle  in  their  shifting  eyes.  The  bright 


70         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

wings  of  unknown  birds,  the  scream  of  some  harsh 
throat  of  an  alien  wood,  the  monkeys  chattering, 
the  soft  stamp  and  padding  of  the  elephants  chained 
in  a  stately  central  line  along  the  clover  —  it  was 
certain,  one  would  have  said,  that  these  must  change 
the  humour  of  the  pasture  as  the  companionship  of 
the  grotesque  and  the  vast  alters  the  humour  of  the 
mind.  That  the  pasture,  indeed,  would  never  be 
the  same,  and  that  its  influence  would  be  breathed 
on  all  who  entered  there.  Already  Liva  and  Tim- 
othy, each  with  the  other's  picture  in  a  pocket,  moved 
down  that  tent  of  the  field  in  another  world.  Or 
had  that  world  begun  at  the  door  of  the  stuffy  little 
phototype  tent? 

It  was  the  cage  of  bright- winged  birds  that  held 
the  two.  Timothy  stood  grasping  his  elbows  and 
looking  at  that  flitting  flame  and  orange.  Dare  he 
ask  her  if  she  would  wear  his  phototype  in  her  locket 
—  dare  he  —  dare  he 

He  turned  to  look  at  her.  Oh,  and  the  rose-pink 
cambric  was  so  near  his  elbow  !  Her  face,  upturned 
to  the  birds,  was  flushed,  her  lips  were  parted,  her 
eyes  that  matched  Timothy's  were  alight ;  but  there 
was  always  in  Timothy's  eyes  a  look,  a  softness, 
a  kind  of  speech  that  Liva's  could  not  match.  He 
longed  inexpressibly  to  say  to  her  what  was  in  his 
heart  concerning  the  locket  —  the  phototype  — 
themselves.  And  Liva  herself  was  longing  to  say 


DIFFERENT  71 

something  about  the  sheer  glory  of  the  hour.  So 
she  looked  up  at  his  brown  Adam's  apple,  and, 

"  Think,  Timmie,"  she  said,  "  they're  all  in  the 
Pump  pasture  where  nothin'  but  cows  an'  robins  an' 
orioles  ever  was  before  !" 

"  I  know  it  —  I  know  it !  "  breathed  Timothy  fer- 
vently. "  Don't  seem  like  it  could  be  the  same  place, 
does  it?" 

Liva  barely  lifted  her  eyes. 

"  It  makes  us  seem  differ'nt,  too,"  she  said,  and 
flushed  a  little,  and  turned  to  hurry  on. 

"  I  was  thinkin'  that  too  !  "  he  cried  ecstatically, 
overtaking  her.  But  all  that  Timothy  could  see 
was  tight  coils  of  blond,  crinkled  hair,  and  a  little 
ear  and  a  curve  of  white  throat,  with  a  silver 
locket  chain. 

Down  the  majestic  line  of  the  elephants,  towering 
in  the  apotheosis  of  mere  bulk  to  preach  ineffectually 
that  spirit  is  apocryphal  and  mass  alone  is  potent; 
past  the  panthers  that  sniffed  as  if  they  guessed  the 
nearness  of  the  grazing  herd  in  the  next  pasture  ;  past 
the  cage  in  which  the  lioness  lay  snarling  and  baring 
her  teeth  above  her  cubs,  so  pathetically  akin  to  the 
meadow  in  her  motherhood;  past  unknown  creatures 
with  surprising  horns  and  shaggy  necks  and  lolling 
tongues  —  it  was  a  wonderful  progress.  But  it  was 
as  if  Liva  had  found  something  more  wonderful  than 
these  when,  before  the  tigers'  cage,  she  stepped  for- 


72         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

ward,  stooped  a  little  beneath  the  rope,  and  stood 
erect  with  shining  eyes. 

"  Look!  "  she  said.  «  Look,  Timmie." 

She  was  holding  a  blue  violet. 

"  In  front  of  the  tigers  ;  it  was  growing  !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  give  it  to  me  ?  "  was  Timothy's 
only  answer. 

She  laid  it  in  his  hand,  laughing  a  little  at  her 
daring. 

"  It  won't  ever  be  the  same,"  she  said.  "  Tigers 
have  walked  over  it.  My,  ain't  everything  in  the 
pasture  differ'nt?" 

"  Just  as  differ'nt  as  differ'nt  can  be,"  Timothy 
admitted. 

"  Here  we  are  back  to  the  birds  again,"  Liva  said, 
sighing. 

Timothy  had  put  the  violet  in  his  coat  pocket  and 
he  stood  staring  at  the  orange  and  flame  in  the  cage : 
Her  phototype  and  a  violet — her  phototype  and  a 
violet. 

But  all  he  said,  not  daring  to  look  at  her  at  all, 
was:  — 

"  I  can't  make  it  seem  like  the  Pump  pasture  to 
save  me." 

There  is  something,  as  they  have  said  of  a  bugle, 
"winged  and  warlike"  about  a  circus  —  the  confu- 
sions, the  tramplings,  the  shapes,  the  keen  flavour  of 
the  Impending,  and  above  all  the  sense  of  the  Un- 


DIFFERENT  73 

toward,  which  is  eternal  and  which  survives  glamour 
as  his  grave  survives  a  man.  Liva  and  Timothy  sat 
on  the  top  row  of  seats  and  felt  it  all,  and  believed 
it  to  be  merely  honest  mirth.  Occasionally  Liva 
turned  and  peered  out  through  the  crack  in  the  can- 
vas where  the  side  met  the  roof,  for  the  pure  joy  of 
feeling  herself  alien  to  the  long  green  fields  with  their 
grazing  herds  and  their  orioles,  and  at  one  with  the 
colour  and  music  and  life  within.  And  she  was  glad 
of  it  all,  glad  to  be  there  with  Timothy.  But  all  she 
said  was :  — 

"  Oh,  Timmie,  I  hope  it  ain't  half  over  yet.  Do 
you  s'pose  it  is  ?  When  I  look  outside  it  makes  me 
feel  as  if  it  was  over." 

And  Timothy,  his  heart  beating,  a  great  hope  liv- 
ing in  his  breast,  answered  only :  — 

"  No,  I  guess  it'll  be  quite  some  time  yet.  It's 
a  nice  show.  Nice  performance  for  the  money,  right 
through.  Ain't  it?" 

When  at  length  it  really  was  over  and  they  left 
the  tent,  the  wagons  from  town  and  country-side  and 
the  "depot  busses"  had  made  such  a  place  of  dust 
and  confusion  that  he  took  her  back  to  the  cotton- 
wood  on  the  slope  to  wait  until  he  brought  the  buck- 
board  round.  He  left  her  leaning  against  the  tree, 
the  sun  burnishing  her  hair  and  shining  dazzlingly 
on  the  smooth  silver  locket.  And  when  he  drove 
back,  and  reached  down  a  hand  to  draw  her  up  to 


74          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE    LOVE   STORIES 

the  seat  beside  him,  and  saw  her  for  a  moment,  as 
she  mounted,  with  all  the  panorama  of  the  field  be- 
hind her,  he  perceived  instantly  that  the  locket  was 
gone.  Oh,  and  at  that  his  heart  leaped  up  !  What 
more  natural  than  to  dream  that  she  had  taken  it 
off  to  slip  his  phototype  inside  and  that  he  had  come 
back  too  soon?  What  more  natural  than  to  divine 
the  reality  of  dreams? 

His  trembling  hope  held  him  silent  until  they 
reached  the  highway.  Then  he  looked  at  the  field, 
elliptical  tent,  fluttering  pennons,  streaming  crowds, 
and  he  observed  as  well  as  he  could  for  the  thump- 
ing of  his  heart:  — 

"I  kind  o'  hate  to  go  off  an'  leave  it.  To- 
morrow when  I  go  to  town  with  the  pie-plant,  it'll 
look  just  like  nothin'  but  a  pasture  again." 

Liva  glanced  up  at  him  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  I  ain't  sure,"  she  said. 

"What do  you  mean?"  he  asked  her,  wondering. 

But  Liva  shook  her  head. 

"  I  ain't  sure,"  she  said  evasively,  "  but  I  don't 
think  somehow  the  Pump  pasture'll  ever  be  the 
same  again." 

Timothy  mulled  that  for  a  moment.  Oh,  could 
she  possibly  mean  because  .  .  . 

Yet  what  he  said  was,  "Well,  the  old  pasture 
looks  differ'nt  enough  now,  all  right." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Liva,  "  don't  it  ?  " 


DIFFERENT  75 

Timothy  had  supper  at  the  Vesey  farm.  It  was 
eight  o'clock  and  the  elder  Veseys  had  been  gone  to 
prayer-meeting  for  an  hour  when  Liva  discovered 
that  she  had  lost  her  locket. 

"  Lost  your  locket !  "  Timothy  repeated.  It 
was  the  first  time,  for  all  his  striving,  that  he  had 
been  able  to  mention  the  locket  in  her  presence. 
He  had  tried,  all  the  way  home  that  afternoon,  to 
call  her  attention  innocently  to  its  absence,  but  the 
thing  that  he  hoped  held  fast  his  intention.  "  Why," 
he  cried  now,  in  the  crash  of  that  hope,  "  you  had 
it  on  when  I  left  you  under  the  cottonwood." 

"  You  sure  ?  "  Liva  demanded. 

"  Sure,"  Timothy  said  earnestly  ;  "didn't — didn't 
you  have  it  off  while  I  was  gone  ?  "  he  asked  wist- 
fully. 

"  No,"  Liva  replied  blankly ;  she  had  not  taken 
it  off. 

When  they  had  looked  in  the  buckboard  and  had 
found  nothing,  Timothy  spoke  tentatively. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  he  said.  "  We'll  light  a  lantern 
and  hitch  up  and  drive  back  to  the  Pump  pasture 
and  look." 

"  Could  we  ?  "   Liva  hesitated. 

It  was  gloriously  starlight  when  the  buckboard 
rattled  out  on  the  Plank  Road.  Timothy,  wretched 
as  he  was  at  her  concern  over  the  locket,  was  yet 
recklessly,  magnificently  happy  in  being  alone  by 


76         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

her  side  in  the  warm  dusk,  and  on  her  ministry. 
She  was  silent,  and,  for  almost  the  first  time  since 
he  had  known  her,  Timothy  was  silent  too  —  as  if 
he  were  giving  his  inarticulateness  honest  expres- 
sion instead  of  forcing  it  continually  to  antics  of 
speech. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  they  looked  down  on  the 
Pump  pasture.  It  lay  there,  silent  and  dark,  but 
no  longer  expressionless  ;  for  instantly  their  imagina- 
tion quickened  it  with  all  the  music  and  colour  and 
life  of  the  afternoon.  Just  as  Timothy's  silence  was 
now  of  the  pattern  of  dreams. 

He  tied  the  horse,  and  together  they  entered  the 
field  by  the  great  open  place  where  the  fence  had 
not  yet  been  replaced.  The  turf  was  still  soft  and 
yielding,  in  spite  of  all  the  treading  feet.  The 
pasture  was  girdled  by  trees  —  locusts  and  box-alders 
outlined  dimly  upon  the  sky,  nest-places  for  orioles ; 
and  here  and  there  a  great  oak  or  a  cottonwood  made 
a  mysterious  figure  on  the  stars.  One  would  have 
said  that  underfoot  would  certainly  be  violets.  A 
far  light  pricked  out  an  answer  to  their  lantern,  and 
a  nearer  firefly  joined  the  signalling. 

"  I  keep  thinkin'  the  way  it  looked  here  this 
afternoon,"  said  Liva  once. 

cc  That's  funny,  so  do  I,"  he  cried. 

Under  the  cottonwood  on  the  slope,  its  leaves 
stirring  like  little  banners,  Timothy  flashed  his  light, 


DIFFERENT  77 

first  on  tufted  grass,  then  on  red-tasselled  sorrel,  then 

—  lying  there  as  simply  as  if  it  belonged  there  —  on 
Liva's  silver  locket.     She  caught  it  from  him  with  a 
little  cry. 

"  Oh/'  she  said,  "  I'm  so  glad.  Oh,  thank  you 
ever  so  much,  Timmie." 

He  faced  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Why  are  you  so  almighty  glad  ? "  he  burst  out. 

"  Why,  it's  the  first  locket  I  ever  had !  "  she  said 
in  surprise.  "  So  of  course  I'm  glad.  Oh,  Timmie 

—  thank  you  !  " 

"  You're  welcome,  I'm  sure,"  he  returned  stiffly. 

She  gave  a  little  skipping  step  beside  him. 

"  Timmie,"  she  said,  "  let's  circle  round  a  little 
ways  and  come  by  where  the  big  tent  was.  I  want 
to  see  how  it'll  seem." 

His  ill-humour  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

"  That's  what  we  will  do  !  "  he  cried  joyously. 

•He  walked  beside  her,  his  lantern  swinging  a 
little  rug  of  brightness  about  their  feet.  So  they 
passed  the  site  of  the  big  red  ticket  wagon,  of  the 
Eastern  vaudeville,  of  the  phototype  tent ;  so  they 
traversed  the  length  where  had  stretched  the  great 
elliptical  tent  that  had  prisoned  for  them  colour  and 
music  and  life,  as  in  a  cup.  And  so  at  last  they 
stepped  along  that  green  way  of  the  pasture  where 
underfoot  lay  the  grass  and  the  not  infrequent  moss 
and  clover,  not  yet  wholly  trampled  to  dust;  and 


78          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

this  was  where  there  had  been  assembled  bright- 
winged  birds  of  orange  and  flame  and  creatures  of 
the  wild  from  the  Antipodes,  and  where  Strange 
Things  had  closed  them  round. 

The  influence  of  what  the  pasture  had  seen  must 
have  been  breathed  on  all  who  entered  there  that 
night :  something  of  the  immemorial  freedom  of 
bright  birds  in  alien  woods,  of  the  ancestral  kinship 
of  the  wild.  For  that  tranquil  meadow,  long  haunted 
of  Jerseys  and  Guernseys  and  orioles,  expressionless 
as  the  hills,  dependable  as  a  nurse,  had  that  day 
known  strange  breath,  strange  tramplings,  cries  and 
trumpetings,  music  and  colour  and  life  and  the 
beating  of  wild  hearts  —  and  was  it  not  certain  that 
these  must  change  the  humour  of  the  place  as  the 
coming  of  the  grotesque  and  the  vast  alters  the 
humour  of  the  mind  ?  The  field  bore  the  semblance 
of  a  place  exquisitely  of  the  country  and,  here  in  the 
dark,  it  was  inarticulate  once  more.  But  something 
was  stirring  there,  something  that  swept  away  what 
had  always  been  as  a  wind  sweeps,  something  that 
caught  up  the  heart  of  the  boy  as  ancient  voices  stir 
in  the  blood. 

Timothy  cast  down  his  lantern  and  gathered  Liva 
Vesey  in  his  arms.  Her  cheek  lay  against  his 
shoulder  and  he  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  her, 
three  times  or  four,  with  all  the  love  that  he 
bore  her. 


DIFFERENT  79 

"  Liva,"  he  said,  "  all  the  time  —  every  day  — 
I've  meant  this.  Did  you  mean  it,  too  ?  " 

She  struggled  a  little  from  him,  but  when  he 
would  have  let  her  go  she  stood  still  in  his  arms. 
And  then  he  would  have  her  words  and  "  Did 
you  ? "  he  begged  again.  He  could  not  hear  what 
she  said  without  bending  close,  close,  and  it  was 
the  sweeter  for  that. 

"  Oh,  Timmie,"  she  answered,  "  I  don't  know. 
I  don't  know  if  I  did.  But  I  do  —  now." 

Timothy's  courage  came  upon  him  like  a  mantle. 

"  An'  be  my  wife  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  An'  be  ..."  Liva  assented,  and  the  words  fal- 
tered away.  But  they  were  not  greatly  missed. 

Timothy  looked  over  the  pasture,  and  over 
the  world.  And  lo,  it  was  suddenly  as  if,  with 
these,  he  were  become  articulate,  and  they  were 
all  three  saying  something  together. 

When  they  turned,  there  was  the  lantern  glimmer- 
ing alight  on  the  trodden  turf.  And  in  its  little 
circle  of  brightness  they  saw  something  coloured 
and  soft.  It  was  a  gay  feather,  and  Timothy  took 
it  curiously  in  his  hand. 

"  See,  it's  from  one  of  the  circus  birds,"  he  said. 

"  No  !  "  Liva  cried.  "  It's  an  oriole  feather. 
One  of  the  pasture  orioles,  Timmie  !  " 

"  So  it  is,"  he  assented,  and  without  knowing  why, 
he  was  glad  that  it  was  so.  He  folded  it  away  with 


8o          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE    STORIES 

the  violet  Liva  had  gathered  that  afternoon.  After 
all  the  strangeness,  what  he  treasured  most  had  be- 
longed to  the  pasture  all  the  time. 

"  Liva  !  "  he  begged.  "  Will  you  wear  the  picture 
—  my  picture  —  in  that  locket  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  Timmie,  I'm  so  sorry.  The 
locket's  one  I  bought  cheap  in  the  city,  and  it  don't 
open." 

She  wondered  why  that  seemed  to  make  him  love 
her  more.  She  wondered  a  little,  too,  when  on  the 
edge  of  the  pasture  Timothy  stood  still,  looking 
back. 

"  Liva  !  "  he  said, "  don't  the  Pump  pasture  seem 
differ'nt  ?  Don't  it  seem  like  another  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Liva  said,  "  it  don't  seem  the  same." 

"  Liva ! "  Timothy  said  again,  "  it  ain't  the 
pasture  that's  so  differ'nt.  It's  us" 

She  laughed  a  little  —  softly,  and  very  near  his 
coat  sleeve. 

"  I  'most  knew  that  this  afternoon,"  she  answered. 


VI 

THE    FOND    FORENOON 

THIS  morning  Miggy  came  by  appointment  to 
do  a  little  work  for  me,  and  she  appeared  in  some 
"  best "  frock  to  honour  the  occasion.  It  was  a  blue 
silk  muslin,  cut  in  an  antiquated  style  and  trimmed 
with  tarnished  silver  passementerie.  In  it  the  child 
was  hardly  less  distinguished  than  she  had  been 
in  her  faded  violet  apron.  It  was  impossible  for 
her  to  seem  to  be  unconscious  of  her  dress,  and 
she  spoke  of  it  at  once  with  her  fine  directness. 

"  I  didn't  have  anything  good  enough  to  wear," 
she  said.  "  I  haven't  got  any  good  dress  this  summer 
till  I  get  it  made  myself.  I  got  this  out  of  the 
trunk.  It  was  my  mother's." 

"  It  suits  you  very  well,  Miggy,"  I  told  her. 

"  I   thought   maybe  she'd  like  my   wearing  it  — 
here,"  said  Miggy,  shyly.     "  You've  got  things  the 
way  she  always  wanted  'em." 

We  went  in  my  workroom  and  sat  among  my 
books  and  strewn  papers.  A  lighted  theatre  with 
raised  curtain  and  breathless  audience,  a  room  which 

G  8l 


82         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

one  wakens  to  find  flooded  by  a  gibbous  moon, 
these  have  for  me  no  greater  sorcery  than  morning 
in  a  little  book-filled  room,  with  the  day  before  me. 
Perhaps  it  is  that  I  ought  to  be  doing  so  many 
things  that  I  take  an  idler's  delight  in  merely  attend- 
ing to  my  own  occupation. 

While  I  wondered  at  what  I  should  set  Miggy, 
I  looked  for  the  spirit  of  the  minute  and  tried  not  to 
see  its  skeleton.  The  skeleton  was  that  I  had  here 
an  inexperienced  little  girl  who  was  of  almost  no  use 
to  me.  The  spirit  was  that  whatever  I  chose  to  do, 
my  work  was  delightful  to  me,  and  that  to  bring 
Miggy  in  contact  with  these  things  was  a  kind  of 
adventure.  It  is,  I  find,  seldom  sufficient  to  think 
even  of  the  body  of  one's  work,  which  to-day  proved 
to  be  in  my  case  a  search  in  certain  old  books  and 
manuscripts  for  fond  allusions.  If  one  can,  so  to 
say,  think  in  and  out  till  one  comes  to  the  spirit  of 
a  task,  then  there  will  be  evident  an  indeterminate 
sense  of  wings.  Without  these  wings  there  can  be 
no  expression  and  no  creation.  And  in  the  true 
democracy  no  work  will  be  wingless.  It  will  still  be, 
please  God,  laborious,  arduous,  even  heart-breaking, 
but  never  body-fettered,  never  with  its  birdlike 
spirit  quenched.  And  in  myself  I  would  bring  to 
pass,  even  now,  this  fair  order  of  sweet  and  willing 
toil  by  taking  to  my  hand  no  task  without  looking 
deep  within  for  its  essential  life. 


THE   FOND    FORENOON  83 

So  it  was  with  a  sense  not  only  of  pleasure  but  of 
leisure  that  I  established  Miggy  by  the  window 
with  a  manuscript  of  ancient  romances  and  told  her 
what  to  do :  to  look  through  them  for  a  certain 
story,  barely  more  than  a  reference,  to  the  love  of 
an  Indian  woman  of  this  Middle  West  for  her  Indian 
husband,  sold  into  slavery  by  the  French  Canadians. 
It  is  a  simple  story  —  you  will  find  small  mention 
made  of  it  —  but  having  once  heard  it  the  romance 
had  haunted  me,  and  I  was  fain  to  come  on  it  again  : 
the  story  of  the  wife  of  Kiala,  fit  to  stand  niched 
with  the  great  loves  of  the  world. 

The  morning  sun  —  it  was  hardly  more  than 
eight  o'clock  —  slanted  across  the  carpet ;  some 
roses  that  Little  Child  had  brought  me  before  her 
breakfast  were  fresh  on  my  table  ;  and  the  whole  time 
was  like  a  quiet  cup.  In  that  still  hour  experience 
seemed  drained  of  all  but  fellowship,  the  fellowship 
of  Miggy  and  my  books  and  the  darling  insistence 
of  the  near  outdoors.  Do  you  not  think  how  much  of 
life  is  so  made  up,  free  of  rapture  or  anxiety,  dedi- 
cated, in  task  or  in  pastime,  to  serene  companion- 
ship? 

I  have  said  that  for  me  there  are  few  greater 
sorceries  than  morning,  with  the  day  before  me,  in 
a  small  book-filled  room.  I  wonder  if  this  is  not 
partly  because  of  my  anticipations  of  the  parentheses 
I  shall  take  ?  Not  recesses,  but  parentheses,  which 


84         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

can  flavour  a  whole  day.  I  remember  a  beloved 
house  in  which  breakfast  and  luncheon  were  daily 
observations  looked  forward  to  not  so  much  for 
themselves,  as  that  they  were  occasions  for  the  most 
delightful  interruptions.  Dinner  was  a  ceremony 
which  was  allowed  to  proceed ;  but  a  breakfast  or  a 
luncheon  was  seldom  got  through  without  one  or 
two  of  us  leaving  the  table  to  look  up  a  stanza,  or 
to  settle  if  two  words  had  the  same  derivation,  or  to 
find  if  some  obsolete  fashion  in  meanings  could  not 
yet  be  worn  with  impunity.  It  grieved  the  dear 
housewife,  I  remember,  and  we  tried  to  tell  her  how 
much  more  important  these  things  were  than  that 
our  new  potatoes  should  be  buttered  while  they  were 
hot.  But  she  never  could  see  it,  and  potatoes  made 
us  think  of  Ireland,  and  in  no  time  we  were  deep  in 
the  Celtic  revival  and  racing  off  to  find  "  The  Love 
Talker."  I  remember  but  one  dinner  interruption, 
and  that  was  when  we  all  left  in  the  midst  of  the  fish 
to  go  in  the  study  and  determine  if  moonlight  shin- 
ing through  stained  glass  does  cast  a  coloured 
shadow,  as  it  did  on  St.  Agnes'  eve.  ...  I  sup- 
pose, in  those  days,  we  must  have  eaten  something, 
though,  save  a  certain  deep-dish  cherry  pie  I  cannot 
remember  what  we  ate ;  but  those  interruptions  are 
with  me  like  so  many  gifts,  and  I  maintain  that  these 
were  the  realities.  Those  days  —  and  especially 
the  morning  when  we  read  through  the  £:  Ancient 


THE   FOND    FORENOON  85 

Mariner"  between  pasting  in  two  book  plates!  — 
taught  me  the  precious  lesson  that  the  interruption 
and  not  the  task  may  hold  the  angel.  It  was  so 
that  I  felt  that  morning  with  Miggy ;  and  I  know 
that  what  we  did  with  that  forenoon  will  persist 
somewhere  when  all  my  envelopes  of  clippings  are 
gone  to  dust. 

After  a  time  I  became  conscious  that  the  faint 
rustling  of  the  papers  through  which  I  was  looking 
was  absorbed  by  another  sound,  rhythmic,  stedfast. 
I  looked  out  on  my  neighbour's  lawn,  and  at  that 
moment,  crossing  my  line  of  vision  through  the 
window  before  which  Miggy  was  seated,  I  saw  Peter, 
cutting  my  neighbour's  grass.  I  understood  at 
once  that  he  had  chosen  this  morning  for  his  service 
in  order  to  be  near  Miggy.  It  all  made  a  charming 
sight,  —  Peter,  bareheaded,  in  an  open-throated, 
neutral  shirt,  cutting  the  grass  there  beyond  Miggy 
in  her  quaint  dress,  reading  a  romance.  I  forgot 
my  work  for  a  1'ttle,  and  watched  for  those  mo- 
ments of  his  passing.  Miggy  read  on,  absorbed. 
Then,  for  a  little,  I  watched  her,  pleased  at  her  ab- 
sorption. 

Sometimes,  from  my  window,  I  have  looked  down 
on  the  river  and  the  long  yellow  sand  bar  and  the 
mystery  of  the  opposite  shore  where  I  have  never 
been,  and  I  have  felt  a  great  pity  that  these  things 
cannot  know  that  they  are  these  things.  Some- 


86          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

times,  in  the  middle  of  a  summer  night,  when  the 
moon  is  so  bright  that  one  can  see  well  within  one's 
own  soul,  I  have  fancied  that  I  have  detected  an 
aroma  of  consciousness,  of  definite  self-wonder,  in 
the  Out-of-doors.  Fleetingly  I  have  divined  it  in 
the  surprise  of  Dawn,  the  laughter  of  a  blue  Fore- 
noon, the  girlish  shyness  of  Twilight.  And  this 
morning  I  wanted  self-wonder  for  Miggy  and  Peter. 
What  a  pity  that  they  could  not  see  it  all  as  I  saw 
it:  the  Shelley-like  boy  cutting  the  grass  and 
loving  this  girl,  in  her  mother's  gown.  But  you 
must  not  suppose,  either,  that  I  do  not  know  how 
that  vast  unconsciousness  of  Nature  and  Love  flows 
with  a  sovereign  essence  almost  more  precious  than 
awareness. 

"  Miggy,"  I  said  presently,  "  Peter  is  not  at 
work  to-day.  That  is  he  cutting  grass." 

She  looked  out  briefly. 

"  He's  got  two  days  off  coming  to  him,"  she 
answered.  "  It's  for  overtime.  This  must  be  one  of 
'em.  Have  you  read  these  stories  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  have.  Miggy,  don't  you  want 
to  go  and  ask  Peter  to  have  lunch  with  us  at 
twelve  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  she  dismissed  this.  "  This 
isn't  the  day  I  see  him." 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  it  ?  "  I  pressed  the  matter 
curiously.  "  Just  we  three  at  luncheon  alone  ?  " 


THE   FOND   FORENOON  87 

She  was  turning  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript  and 
she  looked  up  to  set  me  right. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  Peter 
that  way  at  all.  I  just  know  him  to  have  him  walk 
home  with  me,  or  call,  or  go  walking.  Peter  never 
eats  with  me." 

Poor  Peter,  indeed,  to  be  denied  the  simple  in- 
timacy of  sometimes  breaking  bread  with  Miggy. 
I  understood  that  to  invite  a  man  to  "  noon  lunch  " 
in  the  village  was  almost  unheard  of,  but, 

"  I  think  he  would  eat  this  noon  if  he  never  ate 
before,"  said  I.  To  which  Miggy  made  answer:  — 

"  If  you  have  read  all  these  stories  will  you  — 
wouldn't  you  —  tell  me  some,  please  ?  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  having  to  wait  to  read  'em  before  I  know 
'em!" 

She  shut  the  book  and  leaned  her  chin  in  her 
hand  and  looked  at  me.  And  the  idea  of  having 
Peter  with  us  for  lunch  drifted  out  of  the  room,  un- 
attended. 

I  maintain  that  one  who  loves  the  craft  of  letters 
for  its  own  sake,  one  who  loves  both  those  who  have 
followed  it  and  the  records  that  they  have  left,  and 
one  who  is  striving  to  make  letters  his  way  of  service, 
must  all  have  acted  in  the  same  way ;  and  that  was 
the  way  that  I  took.  In  these  days  when  Helen  and 
Juliet  are  read  aloud  to  children  while  they  work 
buttonholes  in  domestic  science  class,  think  of  the 


88          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

pure  self-indulgence  of  coming  on  a  living  spirit  — 
I  say  a  living  spirit — who  had  never  heard  of  the 
beloved  women  of  the  world.  I  wonder  if  we  could 
not  find  such  spirits  oftener  if  we  looked  with  care  ? 
When  I  see  certain  women  shopping,  marketing, 
jolting  about  in  busses,  I  am  sometimes  moved  to 
wonder  if  they  know  anything  about  Nicolete  and,  if 
they  were  to  be  told,  whether  it  would  not  rest  them. 

I  love  it,  I  love  this  going  back  into  old  time  and 
bringing  out  its  sweet  elements.  I  have  said  that 
there  is  a  certain  conservatism  in  which,  if  I  let  my 
taste  have  its  way  with  me,  I  would  luxuriate,  as  I 
might  then  indulge  my  love  of  the  semi-precious 
stones,  or  of  old  tiling,  or  of  lilies-of-the-valley,  all 
day  long.  And  it  is  so  that  my  self-indulgence 
would  lead  me  to  spend  my  days  idling  over  these 
shadowy  figures  in  the  old  romances  and  the  old 
biographies.  The  joy  of  it  never  leaves  me.  Always 
from  these  books  drifts  out  to  me  the  smoke  of 
some  hidden  incense  that  makes  the  world  other. 
Not  that  I  want  the  world  to  be  that  way,  but  I  like 
to  pretend.  I  know  now  that  in  a  world  where  one 
must  give  of  one's  utmost,  spend  and  be  spent  if  one 
is  even  to  pay  for  one's  keep,  these  incense  hours 
must  be  occasional,  not  to  say  stolen.  So  that  to 
find  a  Miggy  to  whom  to  play  preceptor  of  romance 
was  like  digging  a  moonstone  out  of  the  river  bank. 

What  did  I  tell  her  ?     Not  of  Helen  or  Cleopatra 


THE   FOND   FORENOON  89 

or  Isolde  or  Heloise  or  Guinevere,  because  —  why,  I 
think  that  you  would  not  have  told  her  of  these, 
either.  Of  Beatrice  and  Brunhilde  and  Elaine  and 
Enid  I  told  her,  for,  though  these  are  so  sad,  there  beat 
the  mighty  motives,  seeds  of  the  living  heart.  Last 
I  told  her,  of  Nicolete  and  of  Griselda  and  of  Psyche 
and  of  the  great  sun  of  these  loves  that  broke  from 
cloud.  She  listened,  wrapt  as  I  was  wrapt  in  the 
telling.  Was  it  strange  that  the  room,  which  had 
been  like  a  quiet  cup  for  serene  companionship, 
should  abruptly  be  throbbing  with  the  potent  prin- 
ciples of  the  human  heart  ?  I  think  that  it  was  not 
strange,  for  assuredly  these  are  nearer  to  us  than 
breathing,  instant  to  leap  from  us,  the  lightning  of 
the  soul,  electric  with  life  or  with  death.  We  are 
never  very  far  from  strong  emotion.  Even  while  I 
recounted  these  things  to  Miggy,  there,  without  my 
window,  was  Peter,  cutting  the  grass. 

When  I  had  done,  "  Is  there  more  like  that  in 
books  ? "  asked  Miggy. 

Oh,  yes  ;  thank  heaven  and  the  people  who  wrote 
them  down,  there  are  in  books  many  more  like 
these. 

"  I  s'pose  lots  didn't  get  into  the  books  at  all," 
said  Miggy,  thoughtfully. 

It  is  seldom  that  one  finds  and  mourns  a  bird 
that  is  dead.  But  think  of  the  choir  of  little  bright 
breasts  whose  raptures  nobody  hears,  nobody  misses, 


9o         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

nobody  remembers.  How  like  them  we  are,  we  of 
the  loving  hearts. 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  there's  lots  of  folks  being 
that  way  right,  right  now,"  concluded  Miggy. 

Who  am  I  that  I  should  doubt  this  ? 

"  A  tournament,"  said  Miggy,  dreamily  ;  "I  s'pose 
that  was  something  like  the  Java  entertainment  is 
going  to  be." 

She  slipped  to  one  side  of  the  big  chair  and  laid 
both  hands  on  its  arm. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "  Would  this  be  one  ?  You 
know  Delly  Watson  that's  crazy  ?  She  was  in  love 
with  Jem  Pitlaw,  a  school  teacher  that  used  to  be 
here,  an'  that  died,  an'  that  wasn't  in  love  with  her 
even  if  he  had  stayed  living,  and  it  did  that  to  her. 
You  know  .  .  .  she  talks  about  things  that  nobody 
ever  heard  of,  and  listens,  and  laughs  at  what  she 
thinks  she  hears.  Ain't  that  like  Elaine  ?  " 

Yes,  if  poor  Delly  Watson  of  the  village  had  had 
a  barge  and  a  dwarf  and  a  river  winding  from  tow- 
ered city  to  towered  city,  she  would  not  have  been 
unlike  Elaine. 

"  And  Jerry,  that  sets  up  folks's  stoves  and  is  so 
in  love  with  the  music  teacher  that  he  joined  the 
chorus  and  paid  his  dues  and  set  in  the  bass  corner 
all  winter  to  watch  her  and  he  can't  sing  a  note. 
And  she  don't  even  see  him  when  she  passes  him. 
Ain't  that  like  Beatrice  and  the  Pale  Man  ? " 


THE   FOND    FORENOON  91 

Jerry  is  so  true  and  patient,  and  our  young  music 
teacher  is  so  fair,  that  no  one  could  find  it  sacrilege  to 
note  this  sad  likeness. 

"  And  Mis'  Uppers  that  her  husband  went  out 
West  and  she  didn't  get  any  word,  and  he  don't 
come,  and  he  don't  come,  and  she's  selling  tickets 
on  the  parlour  clock,  and  she  cries  when  anybody 
even  whistles  his  tunes  —  isn't  that  some  like  Brun- 
hilde,  that  you  said  about,  waiting  all  alone  on  top 
of  the  mountain  ?  I  guess  Brunhilde  had  money, 
but  I  don't  think  Mis'  Uppers'  principal  trouble  is 
that  she  ain't.  With  both  of  'em  the  worst  of  it 
must  'a'  been  the  waiting." 

And  I  am  in  no  wise  sure  that  that  slow-walking 
woman  in  the  pointed  gray  shawl  may  not  have  a 
heart  which  aches  and  burns  and  passions  like  a 
valkyr's. 

"  And  Mame  Wallace,  that  her  beau  died  and  all 
she's  got  is  to  keep  house  for  the  family,  and  keep 
house,  and  keep  house.  It  seems  as  if  she's  sort  of 
like  Psyche,  that  had  such  an  awful  lot  of  things  to 
do  —  and  her  life  all  mussed  up." 

Perhaps  it  is  so  that  in  that  gaunt  Mame  Wal- 
lace, whose  homing  passion  has  turned  into  the 
colourless,  tidy  keeping  of  her  house,  there  is  some- 
thing shining,  like  the  spirit  of  Psyche,  that  would 
win  back  her  own  by  the  tasks  of  her  hand. 

"And  then  there's  Threat  Hubbelthwait,"  said 


92          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Miggy,  "  that  gets  drunk  and  sets  in  his  hotel  bar 
riddling,  and  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  shoves  him  his 
meals  in  on  to  the  cigar  show-case  and  runs  before  he 
throws  his  bow  at  her  —  she's  just  exactly  like 
those  two rt 

"  Enid  or  Griselda  ? "  I  recognized  them,  and 
Miggy  nodded.  Poor  Mis'  Hubbelthwait !  Was 
she  not  indeed  an  Enid,  lacking  her  beauty,  and  a 
Griselda,  with  no  hope  of  a  sweet  surprise  of  a  love 
that  but  tested  her  ?  Truly,  it  was  as  Miggy  said  : 
in  some  form  they  were  all  there  in  the  village, 
minus  the  bower  and  the  silken  kirtle,  but  with  the 
same  living  hearts. 

And  these  were  not  all. 

"Miggy,"  I  said,  "what  about  Liva  Vesey  and 
Timothy  ?  Did  you  count  them  ?  "  For  Aucas- 
sin  and  Nicolete  were  happy  and  so  are  Liva  and 
Timothy,  and  I  think  that  they  have  all  understood 
meadows. 

Miggy  looked  startled.  One's  own  generation 
never  seems  so  typical  of  anything  as  did  a  genera- 
tion or  two  past. 

"  Could  they  be  ?  "  she  asked.  "  They  got  en- 
gaged the  night  of  the  circus  Liva  told  me  —  every- 
body knows.  Could  they  be  counted  in  ?  " 

Oh,  yes,  I  assured  her.  They  might  be  counted. 
So,  I  fancy,  might  all  love-in-the-village,  if  we  knew 
its  authentic  essence. 


THE   FOND    FORENOON  93 

"  Goodness,"  said  Miggy,  meditatively,  "  then 
there's  Christopha  and  Allen  last  winter,  that  I  was 
their  bridesmaid,  and  that  rode  off  in  the  hills  that 
way  on  their  wedding  night.  I  s'pose  that  was  like 
something,  if  we  only  knew  ?  " 

I  could  well  believe  that  that  first  adventure  of  the 
young  husband  and  wife,  of  whom  I  shall  tell  you, 
was  like  something  sweet  and  bright  and  long  ago. 

"  And  what,"  I  said  to  Miggy  abruptly,  "  about 
Peter  ? " 

"  Peter  ?  "  repeated  Miggy. 

Why  not  Peter  ? 

She  looked  out  the  window  at  him. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  but  he's  now.  Peter's  now. 
And  he  wears  black  clothes.  And  he's  cutting 
grass.  .  .  ." 

True  for  Peter,  to  all  these  impeachments.  I 
told  her  that,  in  his  day,  Aucassin  was  now,  too; 
and  that  he  wore  the  clothes  of  his  times,  and  that 
if  he  did  not  do  the  tasks  nearest  his  hand,  then 
Nicolete  should  not  have  loved  him. 

"  And,"  said  I,"  unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken, 
in  the  same  way-  that  all  the  ancient  lovers  loved 
their  ladies,  Peter  loves  you." 

"  'That  way  ? "  said  Miggy,  laying  her  hand  on 
the  manuscript. 

"  That  way,"  said  I.  And  a  very  good  way  it 
was,  too. 


94         FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Miggy  put  up  both  hands  with  a  manner  of  point- 
ing at  herself. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "not  me."  Then  her  little 
shoulders  went  up  and  she  caught  her  breath  like  a 
child.  "  Honest  ?  "  she  said. 

I  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent  for  a  little,  watch- 
ing her  across  the  fallen  manuscript  of  ancient  ro- 
mances. Presently  I  picked  up  the  sheets,  and  by 
chance  my  look  fell  on  the  very  thing  for  which  we 
had  been  searching  :  the  story  of  the  wife  of  Kiala,  a 
Wisconsin  Indian  chief  who  was  sold  into  slavery 
and  carried  to  Martinique.  And  alone,  across  those 
hundreds  of  miles  of  pathless  snow  and  sea,  the  wife 
of  Kiala  somehow  followed  him  to  the  door  of  his 
West  Indian  owner.  And  to  him  she  gave  herself 
into  slavery  so  that  she  might  be  with  her  husband. 

I  read  the  story  to  Miggy.  And  because  the 
story  is  true,  and  because  it  happened  so  near  and 
because  of  this  universe  in  general,  I  was  not  able 
to  read  it  quite  so  tranquilly  as  I  should  have  wished. 

"  Oh,"  Miggy  said,  "  is  it  like  that?" 

Yes,  please  God ;  if  the  heart  is  big  enough  to 
hold  it,  it  is  like  that. 

Miggy  put  her  hand  down  quickly  on  the  blue 
muslin  dress  she  wore. 

"  My  mother  knew  !  "  she  said. 

And  that  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all :  one's 
mother  knew. 


THE   FOND   FORENOON  95 

Miggy  turned  once  more  and  looked  out  the 
window  at  Peter.  Bless  Peter!  I  think  that  he  must 
have  been  over  that  grass  with  the  mower  quite  twice 
—  perhaps  twice  and  a  half.  Almost  immediately 
Miggy  looked  away  from  Peter,  and  I  thought  — 
though  perhaps  after  all  it  was  merely  the  faint  colour 
that  often  hovers  in  her  cheek.  I  felt,  however,  that 
if  I  had  again  suggested  to  Miggy  that  we  ask  Peter 
to  lunch,  Peter  might  possibly  have  lunched  with 
us.  But  now  I  did  not  suggest  it.  No,  if  ever  it 
gets  to  be  "  all  Peter  with  Miggy,"  it  must  be  so  by 
divine  non-interference. 

My  little  voice-friend  up  there  on  the  shelf,  the 
Westminster  chimes,  struck  twelve,  in  its  manner  of 
sweet  apology  for  being  to  blame  for  things  end- 
ing. In  the  village  we  lunch  at  twelve,  and  so  my 
forenoon  was  done  and  even  the  simple  tasks  I  had 
set  were  not  all  finished.  I  wonder,  though,  if  deep 
within  this  fond  forenoon  we  have  not  found  some- 
thing—  wings,  or  a  light,  or  a  singing  —  that  was  of 
the  spirit  of  the  tasks  ?  I  wish  that  I  thought  so 
with  reasons  which  I  could  give  to  a  scientist. 

At  all  events  I  am  richly  content.  And  over 
our  luncheon  Miggy  has  just  flattered  me  uncon- 
scionably. 

"  My  !  "  she  said,  "  I  should  think  everybody 
would  want  to  be  Secretary." 


VII 

AFRAID 

I  MUST  turn  aside  to  tell  of  Allen  and  Chris- 
topha,  that  young  husband  and  wife  whose  first 
adventure,  Miggy  thought,  was  like  something  sweet 
and  bright  and  long  ago.  It  happened  this  last 
winter,  but  I  cannot  perceive  any  grave  difference 
between  that  winter  night  and  this  June.  Believe 
me,  the  seasons  and  the  silences  and  we  ourselves 
are  not  so  different  as  we  are  alike. 

On  the  night  of  her  wedding,  Christopha  threw 
her  bouquet  from  the  dining-room  doorway,  because 
there  were  no  front  stairs  from  which  to  throw  it, 
but  instead  only  a  stairway  between  walls  and  to  be 
reached  from  the  dining  room  :  a  mere  clerk  of  a 
stair  instead  of  a  proprietor-like  hall  staircase.  In 
the  confusion  which  followed  —  the  carnations  had 
narrowly  missed  the  blazing  white  gas  burner  high 
in  the  room  —  the  bride  ran  away  above  stairs,  her 
two  bridesmaids  following.  Her  mother  was  al- 
ready there,  vaguely  busy  with  vague  fabrics.  As 
Miggy  had  told  me,  she  herself  was  one  of  Chris- 

95 


AFRAID  97 

topha's  bridesmaids,  and  it  is  from  Miggy  that  I 
have  heard  something  of  the  outcome  of  the  story. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed  there  was 
a  rap  at  it,  a  rap  peremptory,  confident. 

"  Let  me  in,"  said  Allen  ;  "  I'm  the  groom  !  " 

Chris  herself  opened  the  door.  Her  muslin,  wed- 
ding gown  and  the  little  bells  of  lilies  unfaded  in 
her  blond  hair  became  her  wholly,  and  all  her  simple 
prettiness  still  wore  the  mystery  and  authority  of 
the  hour. 

"  Allen,"  she  said,  "  you  oughtn't  to  of." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  ought !  "  he  protested  gayly,  his  voice 
pleasant  with  mirth  and  with  its  new,  deep  note. 
"  I'll  never  see  you  a  bride  again  —  a  real,  weddin'- 
dress  bride.  I  had  to  come." 

Christopha's  mother  looked  up  from  her  vague, 
bright  fabrics. 

"  I  thought  you  started  to  take  the  minister  the 
kodak  album,"  she  said  to  Allen  plaintively.  "Has 
he  got  anybody  to  show  him  any  attention  ?  I 
should  think  you  might  —  " 

But  the  two  bridesmaids  edged  their  way  into  the 
next  room,  and  on  some  pretext  of  fabrics,  took 
Christopha's  mother  with  them,  —  as  if  there  were 
abroad  some  secret  Word  of  which  they  knew  the 
meaning.  For  Miggy  is  sufficiently  dramatic  to 
know  the  Word  for  another,  though  she  is  not  suf- 
ficiently simple  to  know  it  for  herself. 


98          FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Allen  sat  beside  his  bride  on  the  cretonne-covered 
skirt  box.  And  after  all,  he  did  not  look  at  her,  but 
only  at  her  warm  left  hand  in  his. 

"  It  is  the  funniest  thing,"  he  said,  "  when  I  see 
you  comin'  in  the  parlour  lookin'  so  differ'nt,  I'm 
blessed  if  I  wasn't  afraid  of  you.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  " 

"  You's  afraid  of  my  dress,"  Chris  told  him, 
laughing, "  not  me.  You  use*  to  be  afraid  of  me 
when  we's  first  engaged,  but  you  ain't  now.  It's  me. 
I  feel  afraid  of  you  —  Allen.  You're  —  differ'nt." 

He  laughed  tenderly,  confidently. 

"  Boo  I  "  he  said.     "  Now  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  seriously  ;  "  now." 

"  Chris  !  "  he  cried  boyishly,  "  we're  married  ! 
We're  goin'  to  keep  house." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "Allen !  Think  of  the  fun  of 
puttin'  the  presents  in  the  house  —  the  dishes,  and 
the  glass,  and  the  ornaments.  There  won't  be 
another  dinin'  room  in  town  like  ours.  Sideboard 
an'  plate  rail,  an'  the  rug  not  tacked  down." 

Their  thoughts  flew  to  the  little  house,  furnished 
and  waiting,  down  the  snowy  street  by  the  Triangle 
park.  •.  their  house. 

"  Dinners,  and  suppers,  and  breakfas's — just  us 
two  by  ourselves,"  Allen  said.  "  And  the  presents. 
My!" 

"Well,    and     company,"    she    reminded     him, 


AFRAID  99 

"  that's  what  I  want.  The  girls  in  to  tea  in  our  own 
house." 

"  Yes,"  he  assented.  "  Right  away  ?  "  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  right  away,  Silly  !  We've 
got  to  buy  curtains  and  things.  I  never  thought  I'd 
have  so  many  presents,"  she  went  on  happily. 
"  They's  two  water  pitchers  alike.  Bess  says  I  can 
change  hers.  We'll  take  it  to  the  City "  —  she 
gave  a  little  bounce  on  the  skirt  box  —  "and  see  a 
show,  a  really,  truly  show." 

"  Sure  we  will,"  said  he,  magnificently.  "  And  I'll 
take  you  to  the  place  I  told  you  about  —  where  I 
got  picked  up." 

The  little  bride  nodded,  her  eyes  softening  almost 
maternally.  It  was  as  if  that  story  were  her  own, 
the  story  of  Allen,  the  little  stray  child  picked  up 
on  the  streets  of  the  City  by  that  good  woman 
whom  Chris  had  never  seen.  But  the  name  of 
Sarah  Ernestine  was  like  a  charm  to  Chris,  for  the 
woman  had  been  to  Allen  father  and  mother  both. 

Chris  bent  down  swiftly  to  his  hands,  closed  over 
her  own,  and  kissed  them. 

"  Oh,  Allen,"  she  said,  with  a  curious  wistfulness, 
"  will  you  always,  always  be  just  like  you  are  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  say  I  would,"  he  answered 
gently.  "  They's  nobody  like  you  anywheres, 
Chris.  Mis'  Chris,  Mis'  Allen  Martin." 


ioo        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  Don't  it  scare  you  to  say  it  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"YeS,  sir,  it  does,"  he  confessed.  "It's  like 
sayin'  your  own  name  over  the  telephone.  What 
about  you  ?  Will  you  always,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  always.     Only  —  " 

"  Only  what  ?  "  he  repeated  anxiously. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  don't  let's  let  any  outside 
things  come  between  us,  Allen  —  like  they  do,  like 
with  Bess  and  Opie,  —  business  and  sewin',  —  that's 
what  I'm  afraid  of,"  she  ended  vaguely. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  we  ain't  much  afraid  of 
each  other,  honey.  I  guess  we're  just  afraid  of  what 
could  come  between  us." 

A  voice,  unconvincing,  unimportant,  a  part  of  the 
inessential  aspect  of  alien  things,  detached  itself  from 
the  accompaniment  in  the  next  room,  saying  some- 
thing responsible  and  plaintive  about  only  an  hour 
till  train  time. 

"An  hour,"  Allen  said  over,  and  put  his  arms 
about  her,  with  boyish  awkwardness  for  the  sake  of 
the  crisp  muslin  gown  that  had  so  terrified  him. 
She  rose  and  stood  beside  him,  and  he  waited  for  a 
moment  looking  up  in  her  face.  "  Chris,"  he  said, 
"I'm  scared  of  this  one  hour  even.  Till  train  time." 

"  I'll  hurry  up  and  get  the  hour  done  as  quick  as 
I  can,"  she  promised  him  gayly. 

"  Honestly,  now  —  "  said  Chris's  mother  from  the 
vague  and  indeterminate  region  where  she  moved. 


AFRAID  101 

"Right  off,  Mis'  Mother!"  Allen  said,  and 
knew  that  she  was  in  the  doorway,  with  the  brides- 
maids laughing  beside  her.  And  then  he  went 
down  the  stairway,  his  first  radiant  moment  gone  by. 

In  the  dining  room  the  messenger  was  waiting.  The 
messenger  had  arrived,  in  the  clear  cold  of  the  night, 
from  a  drive  across  the  Caledonia  hills,  and  someone 
had  sent  him  to  that  deserted  room  to  warm  himself. 
But  Allen  found  him  breathing  on  his  fingers  and 
staring  out  the  frosty  window  into  the  dark.  It  was 
Jacob  Ernestine,  brother  to  the  woman  who  had 
brought  up  Allen  and  had  been  kind  to  him  when 
nobody  else  in  the  world  was  kind.  For  years 
Sarah  Ernestine  had  been  "  West "  — and  with  that 
awful  inarticulacy  of  her  class,  mere  distance  had  be- 
come an  impassable  gulf  and  the  Silence  had  taken 
her.  Allen  had  not  even  known  that  she  meant 
to  return.  And  now,  Jacob  told  him,  she  was  here, 
at  his  own  home  back  in  the  hills  —  Sarah  and  a 
child,  a  little  stray  boy,  whom  she  had  found  and 
befriended  as  she  had  once  befriended  Allen.  And 
she  was  dying. 

"  She  didn't  get  your  letter,  I  guess,"  the  old  man 
said,  "  'bout  gettin';  married.  She  come  to-day,  so 
sick  she  couldn't  hold  her  head  up.  1  see  she  didn't 
know  nothin'  'bout  your  doin's.  I  didn't  let  her 
know.  I  jus'  drove  in,  like  split,  to  tell  you,  when 
the  doctor  went.  He  says  she  can't — she  won't 


'  'fo'2  ' '*  TklENDSHlF   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

.  .  .  till  mornin'.  I  thought,"  he  apologized  wist- 
fully, "  ye'd  want  to  know,  anyways,  so  I  jus'  drove 
in." 

"  That  was  all  right,"  Allen  said.  "  You  done 
right,  Jacob." 

Then  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looking  down 
at  the  bright  figures  of  the  carpet.  Jacob  lived 
twelve  miles  back  in  the  hills. 

"  How'd  you  come  ? "  Allen  asked  him  briefly. 

"  I've  got  the  new  cutter,"  the  old  man  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  eager  pride.  "  I'll  drive  ye." 

Then  some  one  in  the  parlour  caught  sight  of  the 
bridegroom,  and  they  all  called  to  him  and  came 
where  he  was,  besieging  him  with  good-natured, 
trivial  talk.  The  old  man  waited,  looking  out  the 
window  into  the  dark.  He  had  known  them  all 
since  they  were  children,  and  their  merrymaking  did 
not  impress  him  as  wholly  real.  Neither,  for  that 
matter,  did  Allen's  wedding.  Besides,  his  own  sis- 
ter was  dying  —  somehow  putting  an  end  to  the  time 
when  he  and  she  had  been  at  home  together.  That 
was  all  he  had  thought  of  during  his  drive  to  town, 
and  hardly  at  all  of  Allen  and  his  wedding.  He 
waited  patiently  now  while  Allen  got  the  wedding 
guests  back  to  the  parlour,  and  then  slipped  away  from 
them,  and  came  through  the  dining  room  to  the  stair 
door. 

"  Stay  there  a  minute,"  Allen  bade  him  shortly, 


AFRAID  103 

and  went  back  to  the  ^ppx/  floor  and  to  Chris's  door 
again. 

It  was  her  mother  who  answered  his  summons 
this  time,  and  Allen's  manner  and  face  checked  her 
wor^ls.  Before  he  had  done  telling  her  what  had 
happened,  Chris  herself  was  on  the  threshold,  already 
in  sober  bVown,  as  one  who  has  put  aside  rainbows 
and  entered  on  life.  She  had  a  little  brown  hat  in 
one  hand,  and  for  the  other  hand  he  groped  out  and 
held  it  while  he  told  her,  as  well  as  he  could, 

"  I  guess  I've  got  to  go,  Chrissie,"  he  ended 
miserably. 

She  met  his  eyes,  her  own  soft  with  sympathy  for 
the  plight  of  the  other  woman. 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  said  quietly,  "  of  course  we've 
got  to  go." 

He  looked  at  her  breathlessly.  That  possibility 
had  not  crossed  his  mind. 

"You!"  he  cried.  "You  couldn't  go,  dear. 
Twelve  miles  out  in  Caledonia,  cold  as  it  is  to-night. 
You  —  " 

In  spite  of  her  sympathy,  she  laughed  at  him 
then. 

"  Did  you  honestly  think  I  wouldn't?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  kind  of  wonder. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  — "  began  her  mother.  But  the 
two  bridesmaids  manifestly  heard  the  Word  again, 
for  they  talked  with  her  both  at  once. 


104       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  Not  with  Jacob,  though,"  Chris  was  saying  de- 
cisively. "  You  help  father  and  the  boys  get  out 
our  cutter,  Allen." 

Allen  strode  past  the  mother  and  lifted  his  wife's 
face  in  his  hands. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  he  demanded.  cc  Will  you 
go  —  in  the  cold  —  all  that  long  way  —  " 

"  You  Silly  ! "  she  answered,  and  drew  away  from 
him  and  set  the  little  brown  hat  on  her  head. 

The  road  lay  white  before  them,  twelve  miles 
of  snow  and  stars  to  Jacob's  cottage  among  the  Cale- 
donia hills.  Jacob  had  gone  on  —  from  the  crest 
of  the  rise  by  the  Corner  church  they  saw  him  and 
heard  the  faint  signalling  of  his  bells.  It  was  a 
place,  that  rise  by  the  Corner  church  on  the  edge  of 
the  village,  where  two  others  in  such  case  might 
have  drawn  rein  to  look  at  Everything,  stretching 
before,  rhythmic  crest  and  shallow,  and  all  silent  and 
waiting.  But  not  these  two,  incurious  as  the  gods, 
nai've  as  the  first  lovers.  Only,  though  of  this  they 
were  unconscious,  they  saw  things  a  little  differently 
that  night. 

"  Look  !  "  said  the  girl,  with  a  sign  to  the  lowlands, 
expressive  with  lights.  "So  many  folks's  houses  — 
homes,  all  started.  I  s'pose  it  was  just  as  big  a  thing 
for  them.  But  theirs  don't  seem  like  anything, 
side  of  ours  !  " 


AFRAID  105 

"  That's  so,  too,"  assented  Allen.  "  And  theirs 
ain't  anything  side  of  ours  !  "  he  maintained  stoutly. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  agreed,  laughing. 

Then  she  grew  suddenly  grave,  and  fell  silent  for 
a  little,  her  eyes  here  and  there  on  the  valley  lights, 
while  Allen  calculated  aloud  the  time  of  the  arrival 
at  Jacob's  house. 

"  Allen  !  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  Here  !  "  he  answered.     "  I'm  here,  you  bet." 

"  Just  look  at  the  lights,"  she  said  seriously,  cc  and 
then  think.  There's  Bess  and  Opie  —  not  speakin' 
to  each  other.  Over  there's  the  Hubbelthwait  farm 
that  they've  left  for  the  hotel  —  an'  Threat  Hubbel- 
thwait drunk  all  the  time.  An'  Howells's,  poor  and 
can't  pay,  and  don't  care  if  they  can't,  and  quarrels 
so  folks  can  hear  'em  from  the  road.  And  the 
Moneys',  that's  so  ugly  to  the  children,  and  her 
findin'  fault,  and  him  can't  speak  without  an  oath. 
That  only  leaves  the  Topladys'  over  there  that's 
real,  regular  people.  And  she  kind  o'  bosses  him." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  so,  ain  ?  "  s?iid  Allen,  look- 
ing at  the  lights  with  a  difference. 

Chris's  right  hand  was  warm  in  his  great-coat 
pocket,  and  she  suddenly  snuggled  close  to  him,  her 
chin  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Allen,"  she  said,  «  I'm  afraid!  " 

"What?  On  the  Plank  Road?"  he  wanted  to 
know,  missing  her  meaning. 


io6        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

cc  All  them  folks  started  out  with  presents,  and  a 
house,  like  us,"  she  said,  "  and  with  their  minds  all 
made  up  to  bein'  happy.  But  just  look  at  'em." 

"  Well,"  said  Allen,  reasonably,  "we  ain't  them." 

<c  We  might  get  like  'em,"  she  insisted.  "  How 
can  you  tell  ?  Folks  just  do  get  that  way  or  they 
just  doi.».  r.  T :,;•-,.  can  you  tell?  '' 

"  I  sVjse  chat's  so,  ain't  it?  "  said  Allen,  thought- 
fully'. 

"  Mother's  got  a  picture  of  the  Hubbelthwaits 
when  they  was  married,"  Chris  pursued.  "Her 
in  white  an'  slippers  and  bracelets,  and  him  slick  as 
a  kitten's  foot.  Think  of  her  now,  Allen,  with 
bracelets.  And  him  drunk  all  the  time,  'most. 
How  can  you  tell  how  things'll  turn  out?  Oh, 
Allen,  I  ami  I'm  afraid." 

He  bent  to  her  face  and  laid  his  own  against  hers, 
glowing  and  cold  and  with  fresh,  warm  lips. 

(<  Let's  just  try  to  be  happy  and  keep  ourselves 
happy,"  he  said. 

The  trouble '  --vr  \.,  was  sill1  in  her  face,  but  at 
his  touch  the  fears  went:  a  little  away,  and  the  valley 
lights  being  already  left  behind  among  the  echoes  of 
the  bells,  they  forgot  both  the  lights  and  their 
shadows  and  drifted  bi.ck  to  talk  about  the  new 
house  and  the  presents,  and  the  dinners  and  suppers 
and  breakfasts  together.  For  these  were  the  stuff 
of  which  the  time  w.  s  iaa  Ic.  As  it  was  made,  too, 


AFRAID  107 

of  that  shadowy,  hovering  fear  for  the  fntu^  and 
the  tragic  pity  of  their  errand,  and  of  sad  conjecture 
about  the  little  stray  child  whom  Sarah  Ernestine 
had  brought. 

"  That  ain't  it  a'ready,  is  it  ? "  Christopha  ex- 
claimed when  they  saw  Jacob's  cottage. 

"  It  just  is  —  it's  'leven  o'clock  now,"  Allen  an- 
swered, and  gave  the  horse  to  the  old  man ;  and 
they  two  went  within. 

The  light  in  the  room,  like  the  lights  back  in  the  val- 
ley, was  as  if  some  great  outside  influence  here  and 
there  should  part  the  darkness  to  win  a  little  stage  for  a 
scene  of  the  tragedy  :  in  the  valley,  for  the  drunken- 
ness at  the  Hubbelthwaits',  the  poverty  at  the  How- 
ells',  the  ill  nature  at  the  Moneys' ;  and  here,  in 
Jacob's  cottage,  for  death.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
the  quality  of  the  hour  in  the  cottage.  The  room  was 
instinct  with  the  outside  touch.  Already  it  was 
laid  upon  the  woman  in  the  bed,  ar.vl  \\l:h  a  n*y;-.r.ery 
and  authority  not  unlike  that  which  had  come  upon 
Christopha  in  her  marriage  hour  and  was  upon  her 
still. 

The  woman  knew  Allen,  smiled  at  him,  made 
him  understand  her  thankfulness  that  he  had  come. 
At  Christoph?.  she  looked  kindly  and  quite  without 
curiosity.  Some  way,  that  absence  of  curiosity  at 
what  was  so  vital  to  him  gripped  Allen's  heart,  and 
without:  his  ki;o\vir  •  the  process,  showed  him  the 

of  * 


io8        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

nature  of  death.  The  neighbour  who  had  been 
with  the  sick  woman  slipped  outside,  and  as  she 
went  she  patted  Chris's  shoulder;  and  Allen  felt  that 
she  understood,  and  he  was  dumbly  grateful  to  her. 

Allen  sat  by  the  bed  and  held  the  hand  of  his 
foster-mother ;  and  Chris  moved  about  the  room, 
heating  water  for  a  little  pot  of  tea.  And  so  it  was 
Chris  who  first  saw  the  child.  He  was  sitting  at 
the  end  of  the  wood  box,  on  the  floor  before  the 
oven  —  that  little  stray  boy  whom  Sarah  Ernestine 
had  picked  up  as  she  had  once  picked  up  Allen. 
He  looked  up  at  Christopha  with  big,  soft  eyes, 
naive  as  the  first  bird.  Almost  before  she  knew 
that  she  meant  to  do  so,  Chris  stooped,  with  a  won- 
dering word,  and  took  him  in  her  arms.  He  clung 
to  her  and  she  sat  in  the  rocking  chair  near  the  win- 
dow where  stood  Jacob's  carnation  plant.  And 
she  tried  both  to  look  at  the  child  and  to  love  him, 
at  the  same  time. 

"  See,  Allen,"  she  said,  "  this  little  boy  !  " 

The  child  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Allen,  his 
little  arms  leaning  on  Christopha's  breast.  And 
very  likely  because  he  had  felt  strange  and  lonely 
and  now  was  taken  some  account  of,  he  suddenly 
and  beautifully  smiled,  and  you  would  have  loved 
him  the  more  for  the  way  he  did  that. 

The  woman,  lying  with  closed  eyes,  understood 
and  remembered. 


AFRAID  109 

"Allen,"  she  said,  "that's  little  John.  You  find 
him  —  a  home  somewheres.  If  you  can  .  .  ." 

"  Why,  yes,  mother,  we'll  do  that.  We  can  do 
that,  I  guess.  Don't  you  worry  any  about  him" 
said  Allen. 

"  He's  all  alone.  I  donno  his  name,  even.  .  .  .  But 
you  be  good  to  him,  Allen,  will  you  ? "  she  said 
restlessly.  "  I  found  him  somewheres." 

"  Like  me,"  Allen  said. 

She  shook  her  head  feebly. 

"  Worse,"  she  said,  "  worse.  I  knew  I  couldn't 
—  do  much.  I  just  —  thought  I  could  keep  him 
from  bein'  wicked  —  mebbe." 

"  Like  you  did  me,  mother,  I  guess,"  the  boy  said. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Allen  !"  she  said  clearly.  "Oh,  if  I  did!  When 
I  think  how  mebbe  I  done  that  —  /  ain't  afraid  to 
die." 

Jacob  Ernestine  came  in  the  room  and  stood 
rubbing  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  other.  He 
saw  the  kettle's  high  column  of  steam  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  Chris.  But  she  sat  mothering  the 
little  silent  boy,  who  looked  at  her  gravely,  or 
smiled,  or  pulled  at  her  collar,  responsive  to  her 
touch  as  she  was  thrillingly  responsive  to  his  near- 
ness. So  Jacob  lifted  the  kettle  to  the  back  of  the 
stove,  moved  his  carnation  plant  a  little  away  from 
the  frost  of  the  pane,  and  settled  himself  at  the  bed's 


no        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

foot  to  watch.  And  when,  after  a  long  time,  the 
child  fell  asleep,  Chris  would  not  lay  him  down. 
Allen  would  have  taken  him,  and  Jacob  came  and 
tried  to  do  so,  but  she  shook  her  head  and  they  let 
her  be.  She  sat  so  still,  hour  after  hour,  that  at 
last  she  herself  dozed;  and  it  seemed  to  her,  in  a 
manner  of  dreaming,  that  the  carnation  plant  on 
the  window-sill  had  lifted  and  multiplied  until  some- 
thing white  and  like  fragrance  filled  the  room ; 
and  this,  then,  she  dreamed,  was  what  death  is, 
death  in  the  room  for  the  woman.  Or  might  it 
not  be  the  perfume  of  her  own  bridal  bouquet,  the 
carnations  which  she  had  carried  that  night  ?  But 
then  the  child  stirred,  and  Christopha  roused  a  little, 
and  after  all,  the  sense  of  flowers  in  the  room  was 
the  sense  of  the  little  one  in  her  arms.  As  if 
many  things  mean  one  thing. 

It  was  toward  dawn  that  the  end  came,  quite 
simply  and  with  no  manner  of  finality,  as  if  one  were 
to  pass  into  another  chamber.  And  after  that,  as 
quickly  as  might  be,  Christopha  and  Allen  made 
ready  to  drive  back  to  the  village  for  the  last  bitter 
business  of  all. 

Allen,  in  the  barn  with  Jacob,  wondered  what  he 
must  do.  Allen  was  sore-hearted  at  his  loss,  grateful 
for  the  charge  that  he  had  been  given ;  but  what 
was  he  to  do?  The  child  ought  not  to  stay  in 
Jacob's  cottage.  If  Chris's  mother  would  take  him 


AFRAID  1 1 1 

for  a  little, — but  Allen  knew,  without  at  all  being  able 
to  define  it,  her  plaintive,  burdened  manner,  the 
burdened  manner  of  the  irresponsible.  Still  puz- 
zling over  this,  he  brought  the  cutter  to  the  side 
door;  and  the  side  door  opened,  and  Chris  came 
out  in.  the  pale  light,  leading  the  little  boy  —  awake, 
warmly  wrapped,  ready  for  the  ride. 

"  Where  you  goin'  to  take  him  to,  Chrissie  ?  " 
Allen  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Some  of  the  neighbours,  I  guess,  ain't  we  ? " 
she  answered.  "I  donno.  I  thought  we  could  see. 
He  mustn't  be  left  here — now." 

"  No,  that's  so,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  Allen  only.  "He 
mustn't." 

The  three  drove  out  together  into  the  land  lying 
about  the  gate  of  dawn.  A  fragment  of  moon  was 
in  the  east.  There  was  about  the  hour  something 
primitive,  as  if,  in  this  loneliest  of  all  the  hours,  the 
world  reverted  to  type,  remembered  ancient  savage 
differences,  and  fell  in  the  primal  lines. 

"  Allen,"  Chris  said,  "  you'll  miss  her.  I  mean 
miss  knowin'  she's  alive." 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  said,  "  I'll  miss  knowin'  she's 
alive." 

"  Well,  we  must  try  to  settle  what  to  do  with  the 
little  boy,"  she  suggested  hastily. 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  "that's  right.  We've  got  to 
settle  that,"  and  at  this  they  fell  silent. 


112       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  There's  Hopkins's,"  Chris  said  presently,  nod- 
ding toward  the  home  of  the  neighbour  who  had 
waited  their  coming  to  Jacob's  cottage.  "  But 
she'll  hev  to  be  over  there  lots  to-day  and  to-mor- 
row. And  she  was  kep'  up  so  late  it  don't  hardly 
seem  as  if  we'd  ought  to  stop  and  ask  her." 

"  No,"  Allen  said,  "  I  donno  as  it  does,  really." 

"  There's  Cripps's,"  she  suggested  a  little  farther 
on,  "  but  they  ain't  up  yet.  I  donno's  'twould  do 
to  roust  'em  up." 

"  No,"  Allen  agreed,  "  best  not  do  that,  I  guess." 

Christopha  looked  over  the  great  fields. 

"  My !  "  she  said,  "  you'll  miss  her  —  miss  thinkin' 
of  her  bein'  somewheres.  Allen  !  Where  do  you 
s'pose  she  is? " 

"  I  thought  o'  that,"  said  Allen,  soberly. 

"Goodness!"  said  Christopha,  and  shivered,  and 
suddenly  drew  the  child  close  to  her.  He  was  sleep- 
ing again.  And  it  was  so,  with  his  little  body  between 
them,  that  she  could  no  longer  keep  her  hand  warm 
in  Allen's  greatcoat  pocket.  But  above  the  child's 
head  her  eyes  and  Allen's  would  meet,  and  in  that 
hour  the  two  had  never  been  so  near.  Nearer  they 
were  than  in  the  talk  about  the  new  house,  and  the 
presents,  and  the  dinners  and  suppers  and  breakfasts 
together. 

They  passed  the  farmhouses  that  looked  asleep, 
and  the  farmhouses  that  looked  watchfully  awake 


AFRAID  113 

while  their  owners  slept.  It  would  not  be  well  to 
knock  at  these,  still  and  sombre-windowed.  And 
though  there  were  lights  at  the  Moneys'  and  at  the 
Howells'  and  at  the  Hubbelthwait  farm,  and  even  at 
Bess  and  Opie's,  their  gates,  by  common  consent,  were 
also  passed.  Nor  did  they  stop  at  the  Topladys'. 

"  They're  real,  regular  people  with  a  grown  son," 
Chris  said  of  them  vaguely,  "  and  it  don't  seem 
hardly  fair  to  give  'em  little  John,  too  !  " 

"  Little  John,"  Allen  said  over  wonderingly.  When 
they  called  him  that  the  child  seemed  suddenly  a 
person,  like  themselves.  Their  eyes  met  above  his 
head. 

"Allen!"  Chris  said. 

"  What?     What  is  it?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Could  —  do  you  think  —  could  we?  "  she 
demanded. 

"  My  !  "  he  answered,  "  I  been  a-wishin'  —  " 

Involuntarily  he  drew  rein.  They  were  on  the 
rise  by  the  Corner  church  at  the  edge  of  the  village. 
The  village,  rhythmic  crest  of  wall  and  shallow  of 
lawn,  lay  below  them,  and  near  the  little  Triangle 
park  would  be  their  waiting  house. 

"  Did  you  mean  have  him  live  with  us  ?  "  -Allen 
made  sure. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Chris  said,  "  if  we  had  the  money." 

"Well!"  said  the  boy,  "well,  I  guess  that'll  be 
all  right ! " 


Ii4       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  How  much  shed  of  liked  it,"  said  Chris. 

"  Wouldn't  she,  though/' Allen  assented ; "  wouldn't 
she?  And  you  heard  what  she  said  —  that  about 
keepin'  him  from  bein'  —  wicked?  Chrissie — could 
we,  you  and  me?  This  little  fellow? " 

Chris  lifted  her  face  and  nodded. 

"  I  ain't  afraid,"  she  said  simply. 

"  I  ain't  either,"  her  husband  said. 

As  if,  in  this  new  future,  there  were  less  need  of 
fear  than  in  the  future  which  had  sought  to  "  try  to 
be  happy  and  keep  ourselves  happy." 

They  looked  down  where  their  house  would  be, 
near  the  gate  of  the  coming  dawn.  And  —  as  two 
others  in  such  case  might  have  seen  —  it  was  as  if 
they  were  the  genii  of  their  own  mysterious  future, 
a  future  whose  solution  trembled  very  near.  For 
with  the  charge  of  the  child  had  come  a  courage, 
even  as  the  dead  woman  had  known,  when  she 
thought  of  her  charge  of  Allen,  that  she  was  not 
afraid  to  die. 

"Allen,"  said  Chris,  stumblingly,  "it  don't  seem 
as  if  we  could  get  like  the  Howells'  an'  the  Hub- 
belthwaits  and  them.  Somehow  it  don't  seem  as  if 
we  could!  " 

"No,"  said  Allen,  "we  couldn't.  That's  so, 
ain't  it?" 

Above  little  John's  head  their  eyes  met  in  a  kind 
of  new  betrothal,  new  marriage,  new  birth.  But 


AFRAID  115 

when  he  would  have  driven  on,  Allen  pulled  at  the 
reins  again,  and, 

"  Chrissie,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  if  afterwards  — 
there  should  be  anybody  —  else.  I  mean  for  us. 
Would  —  would  you  keep  on  lovin'  this  little  kiddie, 
too?" 

She  met  his  eyes  bravely,  sweetly. 

"  Well,  you  Silly,"  she  said,  "  of  course  I  would !  " 

At  which  Alien  laughed  joyously,  confidently. 

"  Why,  Chris,"  he  cried,  "  we're  married  !  For 
always  an'  always.  An'  here's  this  little  old  man  to 
see  to.  Who's  afraid  ?  " 

Then  they  kissed  each  other  above  the  head  of 
the  sleeping  child,  and  drove  on  toward  the  village, 
and  toward  their  waiting  house. 


VIII 

THE   JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT 

*. 

WHEN  I  opened  my  door  this  morning,  the  Out- 
doors was  like  a  thing  coming  to  meet  me.  I  mean 
that  it  was  like  a  person  coming  to  meet  me  — no,  it 
was  like  many  persons,  hand  in  hand  and,  so  to 
speak,  mind  in  mind ;  a  great  company  of  whom 
straightway  I  became  one.  I  felt  that  swift,  good 
gladness  that  now  was  nowy  —  that  delicate,  fleeting 
Now,  that  very  coquette  of  time,  given  and  with- 
drawn. I  remember  that  I  could  not  soon  go  to 
sleep  on  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  I  learned  that 
the  Hebrew  tongue  has  no  present  tense.  They 
could  not  catch  at  that  needle-point  of  experience, 
and  we  can  do  so.  I  like  to  glory  in  it  by  myself 
when  no  one  else  is  thinking  of  it ;  to  think  aside,  as 
if  to  Something,  that  now  is  being  now.  .  .  .  And  I 
long  for  the  time  when  we  shall  all  know  it  together, 
all  the  time,  and  understand  its  potentialities  and  let 
it  be  breath  and  pulse  to  keep  the  Spirit  Future  alive 
and  pure. 

It  would  have  been  no  great  wonder  if  I  had  been 

116 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  117 

rejoicing  past  all  reason  in  the  moment.  For  at 
that  very  instant  came  Calliope  Marsh,  home  for  the 
Java  entertainment  which  was  set  for  to-night,  and 
driving  to  my  gate  the  Sykes's  white  horse  in  the 
post-office  store  delivery  wagon.  And  as  I  saw  her, 
so  precisely  did  she  look  like  herself,  that  I  could 
have  believed  that  Now  was  not  Now,  but  Then, 
when  first  I  knew  her. 

Calliope  brought  the  buckled  lines  informally  over 
the  horse's  head  and  let  them  fall  about  the  tie  post, 
and  ran  to  me.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  going  to 
tell  what  we  said.  But  it  was  full  of  being  once 
more  in  the  presence  of  those  whom  you  love.  Do 
you  not  think  that  such  being  together  is  a  means 
of  actual  life  transcending  both  breath  and  perception? 

When  our  greeting  was  done,  Calliope  sat  down 
on  the  stair  in  my  hall,  and, 

"  Hev  you  got  any  spare  candle-shades  an' 
sherbet  glasses,  an'  pretty  doilies  an'  lunch  cloths 
an'  rugs  an'  willow  chairs  an'  a  statue  of  almost  any- 
body an*  a  meat-chopper  with  a  peanut-butter  at- 
tachment an'  a  cap  an'  gown  like  colleges  ? "  she 
demanded. 

And  when  I  told  her  that  I  thought  I  might 
have  some  of  these  things, 

"  Well,"  Calliope  said,  "  she  wants  'em  all.  Who 
do  I  mean  by  She?  Mis'  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson, 
the  personal  queen  of  things." 


u8       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

She  leaned  forward,  hugging  her  thin  little  arms, 
and  she  looked  up  at  me  from  under  the  brim  of 
her  round  straw  hat. 

"  I'm  in  need  of  grace,"  she  said  shortly.  "  I 
never  felt  like  this  toward  any  human  being.  But 
I  tell  you,  when  that  little  Mis'  Johnson  comes 
dilly-nippin'  around  where  I  am,  noddin'  her  blue 
ostrich  tip,  seems  my  spine  just  stiffens  out  in  me 
like  it  was  going  to  strike  at  her,  same  as  a  stick. 
Do  you  know  the  feelin'  ?  " 

I  answered  reluctantly,  and  not  as  I  should  wish 
to  answer ;  for  it  is  certain  that  I,  too,  have  seldom 
seen  Mrs.  Johnson  without  an  urgency  to  be  gone 
from  her  little  fluttering  presence.  But  Calliope  ! 
I  could  not  imagine  Calliope  shrinking  from  any 
one,  or  knowing  herself  alien  to  another. 

cc  For  sixty  years,"  she  answered  my  thought  of 
her,  "  I've  never  known  what  it  was  to  couldn't 
bear  anybody,  not  without  I  had  a  reason.  They 
ain't  much  of  anybody  I  what  you  might  say  don't 
like,  without  they're  malicious  or  ugly  a-purpose. 
Ugly  by  nature,  ugly  an'  can't  help  it,  ugly  an' 
don't  know  it  —  I  can  forgive  all  them.  An'  Mis' 
Johnson  ain't  ugly  at  all  —  she's  just  a  real  sweet 
little  slip  of  a  thing,  doin'  her  hard-workin'  best. 
But  when  I  first  see  her  in  church  that  day,  I  says 
to  myself:  c  I'll  give  that  little  piece  two  months  to 
carry  the  sail  she's  carryin'  here  to-day  ;  four  months 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  119 

to  hev  folks  tired  of  her,  an'  six  months  to  get  her- 
self the  com  shoulder  all  'round/  An*  I  hold  to 
what  I  said.  An'  when  her  baby-blue  nineteen-inch 
feather  swings  in  an*  'round,  an'  when  she  tells  how 
things  ought  to  be,  I  kind  oj  bristle  all  over  me. 
I'm  ashamed  of  it  —  an'  yet,  do  you  know,  I  like  to 
give  in  to  it  ?  "  Calliope  said  solemnly.  "  I  donno 
what's  come  over  me.  Hev  you  heard  where  the 
Java  entertainment's  put  to  be  ?  " 

I  had  not  heard,  nor  was  I  sure  just  why  it  was  of 
Java,  save  that  Friendship  is  continually  giving 
entertainments  with  foreign  names  and  practising  a 
wild  imperialism  to  carry  out  an  effect  of  foreign 
parts.  And  since,  at  the  missionary  meeting  which 
had  projected  the  affair,  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  John- 
son had  told  about  their  Java  entertainment  in  their 
church  at  home,  that  great,  tolerant  Mis'  Amanda 
Toplady,  who  was  president  of  the  society,  had  ap- 
pointed her  chairman  of  the  Java  entertainment  com- 
mittee. 

"  And,"  Calliope  informed  me,  "  she's  picked  out 
the  engine-house  for  it.  Yes,  sir,  —  the  fire-engine 
house.  No  other  place  was  quaint  enough.  No 
other  place  lent  itself  to  decoration  probabilities  — 
or  somethin'  like  that.  She  turned  her  back  flat  on 
the  church  an'  went  round  to  empty  stores,  lookin' 
for  quaint-ity.  One  while  I  thought  she'd  hev  us 
in  the  Chinese  laundry,  she  seemed  that  took  with 


izo       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

the  tomato-coloured  signs  on  the  walls.  But,  finally, 
she  lit  on  the  engine-house ;  an'  when  she  see  the 
big,  bare  engine-room,  with  the  big,  shinin'  engine 
in  it,  an*  harnesses  hangin'  from  them  rough  board 
beams  in  a  kind  of  avenoo,  an'  the  board  walls  all 
streaked  down,  she  spatted  her  hands  an'  'lowed 
we'd  hev  our  Java  there.  c  What  a  dear,  quaint 
place/  s's  she,  — c  so  flexible  ! '  She  held  out  about 
the  harnesses  bein'  so  quaintly  picturesque  an'  the 
fire-engine  a  piece  o'  resistance  —  or  somethin'  like 
that.  An'  she  rents  the  room,  without  ay,  yes,  no, 
nor  boo.  My  way  of  thinkin',  a  chairman  ought 
to  hev  boo  for  a  background,  even  if  she  is  chair- 
man. That's  where  she  wants  the  statue  an'  the 
nut  butter  an'  the  cap  an'  gown.  Can  we  borrow 
'em  of  you  ?  " 

"  The  engine-house  !  "  I  repeated  incredulously. 
"  You  cannot  mean  the  fire-engine  house,  Calliope?" 

"  I  do,"  Calliope  said  firmly,  "  the  quaint,  flexible 
fire-engine  house.  They  ain't  been  a  fire  in 
Friendship  in  over  two  years,  so  Mis'  Johnson  says 
we  ain't  got  that  to  think  of —  an'  I  donno  as  we 
hev.  An'  they  never  use  the  engine  any  more, 
now  they've  got  city  water,  excep'  for  fires  in  the 
country,  and  then  nobody  ever  gets  in  to  give  the 
alarm  till  the  house  is  burned  down  an'  no  need 
to  bother  goin'.  Even  if  they  do  get  in  in  some 
sort  of  season,  the  department  has  to  go  to  the 


THE  JAVA    ENTERTAINMENT  121 

mayor  to  get  a  permit  to  go  outside  the  city 
limits.  It  was  so  when  the  Topladys'  barn  burned. 
Timothy  told  'em,  when  they  come  gallopin'  up 
after  it  was  most  done  smokin',  that  if  they  had 
held  off  a  little  longer  they  could  have  been  a  sight 
of  help  to  him  in  shinglin'  the  new  one.  Oh,  no, 
they  ain't  much  of  any  danger  of  our  being  disturbed 
by  a  fire  in  them  two  hours  to-night.  Anyhow, 
they  can't  be  a  fire.  Mis'  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson 
said  so." 

We  laughed  like  children  as  we  loaded  my  "  Java  " 
stuffs  on  the  wagon.  Calliope  was  a  valiant  helper 
to  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  so  I  told  her.  She  was  stand- 
ing in  the  wagon  box,  one  arm  about  my  palm,  the 
other  free  for  driving. 

"  I'm  the  chairman  o'  the  refreshments,  too,"  she 
confessed.  "  Oh,  well.  Yourself  you  can  boss 
round,  you  know,"  she  threw  back,  smiling ;  "  any- 
body can  do  that.  But  your  feelin's  you're  some 
cramped  about  runnin'." 

It  is  certain  that  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson 
was  signally  unfitted  for  a  future  in  Friendship  Vil- 
lage. She  was  a  woman  of  some  little  world  in 
which  she  had  moved  before  she  came  to  us,  and  in 
the  two  worlds  she  perceived  no  difference.  Or, 
where  she  saw  a  difference,  she  sought  to  modify  it 
by  a  touch  when  a  breath  would  have  been  too 
much,  and  the  only  factor  of  potency  would  have 


122        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE  LOVE  STORIES 

been  a  kind  of  potency  of  spirit,  which  she  did  not 
possess. 

The  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnsons  had  moved  to 
Friendship  only  three  months  before,  and  nobody 
had  looked  for  them  at  church  on  their  first  Sunday. 
cc  Movin'  so,  you  want  your  Sabbath  to  take  some 
rest  in,  an*  you  ain't  expected  to  dress  yourself  up 
an'  get  out  to  Sunday  service  an'  face  strangers," 
the  village  said  —  and  when  the  two  walked  into 
church  while  the  responses  were  being  made  nearly 
everybody  lost  the  place. 

They  were  very  young,  and  they  were  extremely 
well  dressed. 

"  He's  got  on  one  o'  the  long  coats,"  comment 
ran  after  church,  "  an'  he's  got  a  real  soft-speakin' 
voice.  But  he  seems  to  know  how  to  act." 

And,  "  I  declare,  nice  white  gloves  an'  a  nineteen- 
inch  baby-blue  ostrich  feather  durin'  movin'  seems 
some  like  puttin'  on." 

And,  "  The  back  of  her  dress  fits  her  just  like  the 
front,  an'  I  must  say  she  knows  it.  No  pullin'  down 
the  jacket  or  hitchin'  the  strings  forward  for  her, 
when  she  stands  up  !  " 

As  Miggy,  who  first  told  me  about  that  day,  had 
said,  "  That  Sunday  morning,  Mis'  Oliver  Wheeler 
Johnson  was  the  belle  of  the  congregation." 

After  service  that  day,  instead  of  going  directly 
home  or  waiting  to  be  addressed,  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  123 

Johnson  had  spoken  to  the  woman  with  whom  she 
had  been  seated.  It  was  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  Mrs.  Johnson  said,  "for 
letting  us  share  your  pew.  May  I  present  my 
husband  ?  We  have  come  to  Friendship  to  live, 
and  we  shall  be  coming  here  to  church.  And  I 
shall  want  to  join  your  Ladies'  Aid  Society  and 
your  Missionary  Circle  and,  perhaps,  be  in  the 
Sunday-school  right  away.  I  —  I  think  I'll  be  less 
homesick  —  " 

"  Actually,"  Mis'  Sykes  said  afterward,  "  she  took 
my  breath  clear  away  from  me.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing.  Of  course,  we're  real  glad  to  hev  our 
newcomers  Christian  people,  but  we  want  quiet  Chris- 
tians. An'  did  you  notice  how  she  was  when  I  give 
her  an  introduction  around  ?  Why,  she  up  an'  out 
with  somethin'  to  say  to  everybody.  Just  a  neat 
little  c  How  d'  do '  wouldn't  do  for  her  to  remark. 
I  always  suspicion  them  talkative-at-first  kind.  It's 
like  they'd  been  on  the  stage  or  brought  up  in  a 
hotel." 

When  she  first  came  to  the  Ladies'  Aid  and  the 
missionary  meetings,  Mrs.  Johnson  "said  some- 
thing." She  was  "up  to  her  feet"  three  or  four 
times  at  each  session  with  suggestion,  information,  or 
description  of  how  they  did  in  her  home  church. 
And  some  way  I  think  that  what  chiefly  separated 
her  from  the  village  was  the  way  that  inevitable 


124       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

nineteen-inch  blue  ostrich  plume  on  the  little 
woman's  hat  bobbed  and  won  attention  and  was 
everywhere  at  once.  Or,  perhaps  —  such  creatures 
of  wax  we  are  to  our  impressions  —  it  may  have 
been  little  Mrs.  Johnson's  mere  way  of  lifting  her 
small,  pointed  chin  when  she  talked,  and  of  frown- 
ing and  over-emphasizing.  Or  it  may  have  been 
that  she  stood  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  in 
what  seemed  to  Friendship  exaggerated  ease,  or  that 
she  smiled  arbitrarily  and  ingratiatingly  as  she  talked 
when  there  was  absolutely  nothing  at  which  to  smile. 
I  think  that  these  made  her  seem  as  alien  to  us  as, 
in  varied  measure,  certain  moral  defects  might  have 
done. 

Moreover,  she  mentioned  with  familiarity  objects 
and  usages  of  which  Friendship  Village  knew  nothing : 
Carriage  shoes,  a  new  cake  of  soap  for  each  guest, 
some  kind  .  of  ice  served,  it  was  incredulously  re- 
peated, "  in  the  middle  o'  the  meal ! "  She  innocently 
let  fall  that  she  sent  to  the  city  for  her  letter-paper. 
She  had  travelled  in  a  state-room  on  a  train,  and  she 
said  so.  She  knew  a  noted  woman.  She  used,  we 
saw  from  the  street,  shaded  candles  on  the  table  when 
she  and  her  husband  were  at  supper  alone.  She 
thought  nothing  of  ordering  Jimmy  Sturgis  and  the 
bus  to  take  her  down  town  to  her  marketing  on  a 
rainy  day.  She  had  inclined  to  blame  the  village 
that  Daphne  Street  was  not  paved,  instead  of  joining 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  125 

with  the  village  to  blame  somebody  else.  Above 
all,  she  tried  to  buy  our  old  furniture.  I  do  not 
know  that  another  might  not  have  done  all  these 
quite  without  giving  offence,  and,  indeed,  rather  have 
left  us  impressed  with  her  superior  familiarity  with 
an  envied  world.  But  by  the  time  of  the  Java 
entertainment  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson  had 
innocently  alienated  half  Friendship  Village.  And 
this  morning  Calliope  merely  voiced  what  I  knew  to 
be  the  sentiment  of  most  of  Mrs.  Johnson's 
neighbours  and  acquaintances.  For  these  people  are 
the  kindly  of  earth ;  but  they  are  of  earth,  where 
reign  both  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal  forces,  — 
and  the  control  is  not  always  so  swift  as  science  and 
the  human  heart  could  wish. 

At  five  o'clock  to-day  —  the  day  set  for  the  Java 
evening  entertainment  — I  made  my  way  to  the 
engine-house.  This  was  partly  because  I  wished  to 
be  as  much  as  possible  with  Calliope  during  her  few 
days  in  the  village,  and  partly  it  was  because  the 
affair  would  belong  to  the  class  of  festivity  which  I 
am  loath  to  miss,  and  I  think  that,  for  Friendship's 
sake,  I  will  never  willingly  pass  by  a  "  hall"  in  which 
is  to  be  found  a  like  diversion.  Already  on  the  great 
room,  receiving  its  final  preparation,  had  descended 
something  of  the  excited  spirit  of  the  evening :  the 
heat,  the  insufficient  light,  the  committee  members' 
shrill,  rollicking  children  sliding  on  the  floor,  the 


126       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

booths  which  in  all  bazaars  contain  with  a  precision 
fairly  bewildering  the  same  class  of  objects  ;  and  the 
inevitable  sense  of  hurry  and  silk  waists  and  aching 
feet  and  mustn't-take-your-change-back.  But  to  all 
these  things  the  Java  engine-house  affair  would  add 
an  element  of  novelty,  almost  a  flavour  of  romance. 
Certainly  the  room  lent  itself  to  "  decoration  prob- 
abilities," as  Calliope  had  vaguely  quoted;  it  had 
been  a  roller-skating  rink,  utilized  by  the  fire-de- 
partment on  the  decline  of  the  pastime,  and  there 
was,  as  Mrs.  Johnson's  piece  de  resistance,  the  fire- 
engine. 

I  had  never  before  been  in  the  engine-house  — 
you  know  how  there  will  be  commonplace  enough 
spots  in  your  own  town  to  which  you  never  go:  the 
engine-house,  the  church  belfry,  the  wood  yard, 
upstairs  over  this  store  and  that,  and  grocery  cellars 
whose  sloping  trap-doors,  open  now  and  then  to  the 
walk,  are  as  alien  as  the  inside  of  the  trunks  of  your 
trees.  When  I  stepped  in  the  engine-house,  it  seemed 
insistently  a  place  in  which  I  had  never  been  before. 
And  this  may  have  been  partly  because  the  whole 
idea  of  a  village  fire-department  is  to  me  singular : 
the  waiting  horses  and  ladders  and  hose,  whose 
sole  reason  for  being  is  merely  ameliorative,  and 
never  human  and  preventive;  that  pealing  of  the 
sharp,  peculiar,  terrifying  alarm  and  summons  first 
imprinting  something  on  the  very  air,  stabbing  us 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  127 

with  Halt  while  we  count  the  bell  strokes  for  the 
ward,  and  then  clanging  the  wild  fury  of  the  quick- 
stroke  command  to  help. 

To-day  the  great  glittering  fire-engine,  flanked  by 
hose-cart  and  hook-and-ladder  wagon,  occupied 
almost  wonderingly  the  head  of  the  room  which  had 
been  invaded,  and  an  inspired  committee  had  gar- 
landed the  engine  with  paper  roses  and  American 
flags.  The  flag  of  the  Netherlands,  copied  from 
a  dictionary  and  wrought  in  red-white-and-blue 
cambric  with  a  silver  crown,  drooped  meditatively 
from  the  smoke-stack ;  a  scarlet  fez  and  a  peacock- 
feather  fan  hung  on  the  supply  hose ;  and  on  the 
tongue-bracer  was  fixed  a  pink  sofa  cushion  from 
Mis'  Amanda  Toplady's  parlour,  with  an  olive  Indian 
gentleman  in  a  tinsel  zouave  jacket  stamped  on  the 
cover.  On  the  two  big  sliding  doors,  back  of  which 
stood  the  fire  company's  horses,  were  tacked  in- 
numerable Javanese  trifles  more  picturesque  than 
authentic  ;  and  on  outlying  booths  and  tables  there 
were  others.  Directly  before  the  engine  was  to  be 
the  tea-table,  where  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  was  to 
serve  Java  tea  from  a  Java  canister,  loaned  by  the 
Post-office  store. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  I  sought  out  Calliope's 
booth,  a  huge  affair  constructed  of  rugs  whose  red- 
tongued,  couchant  dogs  and  bounding  fawns  some- 
what marred  the  Eastern  effect.  And  within,  I 


iz8        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

found  myself  in  a  circle  of  the  Friendship  women 
whom  I  know  best  —  all  of  them  tired  with  that 
deadly  tiredness  born  of  a  day's  work  at  a  church 
fair  of  any  nation.  But  at  once  I  saw  that  it  was 
not  merely  fatigue  which  was  disquieting  them. 

Calliope  was  leaning  against  a  bit  of  Bagelen  blue, 
loaned  by  the  new  minister's  wife.  And  she  said  to 
me  as  if,  I  thought,  in  explanation  of  what  I  was  to 
hear,  —  "I  guess  we're  all  pretty  tired.  Most  of  us 
look  like  we  wanted  to  pant.  I'm  all  of  a  shake, 
myself." 

When  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  spoke  unsmilingly, 
I  understood :  — 

"  It  ain't  the  bein'  tired,"  she  disclaimed  ;  "  tired  I 
can  stand  an'  hev  stood  since  my  own  birth.  But  it's 
the  bein'  commanded  'round  —  me,  commanded — 
by  that  little  I'm-the-one-an'-you-do-as-I-say  out 
there!" 

"  Land-a-livin'  an'  a-dyin'  !  "  said  Mis'  Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame-Bliss,  "  I  declare  if  I  know  whether 
I'm  on  foot  or  on  horseback.  It's  bad  enough  to 
hev  to  run  a  fair,  without  you've  got  to  be  run  your- 
self, too.  Ain't  it  enough  for  Mis'  Johnson  to 
be  made  chairman  without  her  wantin'  to  boss 
besides  ?  She  might  as  well  say  to  me,.  ( Mis' 
Holcomb,  you  do  everything  the  opposite  way 
from  the  way  you've  just  done  it,'  an'  hev  it  over 
with." 


THE  JAVA    ENTERTAINMENT  129 

Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  —  even  that  great,  tolerant 
Mis*  Amanda  —  shook  her  head. 

"  Mis'  Johnson  surely  acts  used  to  bein'  bowed 
down  to,"  she  admitted ;  "  she  seems  fair  bent  on 
lordin'  it.  My  land,  if  she  wasn't  bound  to  bor- 
row my  Tea  rose  plant  that's  just  nearin'  ready 
to  bud." 

Calliope  laughed,  a  little  ruefully,  and  wholly  in 
sympathy. 

"Honest,"  she  said,  " I  guess  what's  the  matter 
with  all  of  us  ain't  so  much  what  she  does  as  the 
particular  way  she  does  it.  It's  so  with  some  folks. 
They  just  seem  to  sort  of  set  you  all  over,  when  you 
come  near 'em  —  same  as  the  cold  does  to  gravy. 
We'd  all  ought  to  wrostle  with  the  feelin',  I  expect." 

"  I  expect  we  had,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb,  "  but 
you  could  wrostle  all  your  days  with  vinegar  an'  it'd 
pucker  your  mouth  same  way." 

"  Funny  part,"  Calliope  observed,  rt  everybody 
feels  just  alike  about  her.  When  she  skips  around 
so  sort  o'  momentous,  we  all  want  to  dodge.  I  felt 
sorry  for  her,  first,  because  I  thought  she  was  in 
for  nervous  prostration.  But  after  a  while  I  see  it 
wasn't  disease  —  it  was  just  her  feelin'  so  up  an* 
down  significant,  you  might  say." 

"  I  donno,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame- 
Bliss,  "but  it's  part  the  way  she  says  her  #'s.  That 
real  0-soundin'  a  kind,"  she  explained  vaguely. 


ijo       FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE   LOVE 

"She's  so  right  an*  left  cuffy —  I  guess  that's 
the  whole  thing/'  Calliope  put  it  in  her  rich  idiom. 

"  Well,"  said  Mis'  Amanda,  sadly,  "  there  must 
be  somethin'  we  could  like  her  for,  even  if  it  was 
only  her  husband." 

"He  ain't  what  I'd  call  much,  either,"  Cal- 
liope dismissed  Mr.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson  posi- 
tively ;  "  he's  got  too  soft-speakin'  a  voice.  I  like 
a  man's  voice  to  rumble  up  soft  from  his  chest  an* 
not  slip  down  thin  from  his  brain." 

I  remember  that  I  listened  in  a  great  wonder  to 
these  women  whom  I  had  seen  at  many  an  office  of 
friendliness  to  strangers  and  aliens.  Yet  as  I  looked 
across  the  floor  at  that  little  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler 
Johnson  —  who,  in  the  hat  with  the  blue  plume, 
was  everywhere,  directing,  altering,  objecting,  ar- 
ranging, commanding  and,  especially,  doing  over  — 
I  most  unwillingly  felt  much  as  they  felt.  If  only 
Mrs.  Johnson  had  not  continually  lifted  her  little 
pointed  chin.  If  only  she  had  not  perpetually 
and  ingratiatingly  smiled  when  there  was  nothing  at 
which  to  smile  at  all. 

Then  Abigail  Arnold  hurried  up  to  us  with  a  tray 
of  cups  for  the  Java  tea. 

"  Calliope,"  she  said  to  the  chairman  of  the  re- 
freshments, "  Mis'  Johnson  jus'  put  up  her  little 
chin  an*  says,  c  What !  ain't  we  no  lemons  for  the 
tea?'" 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  131 

Calliope  compressed  her  lips  and  lifted  their  thin 
line  tight  and  high. 

"  Lemins,"  she  replied,  "  ain't  necessarily  found 
in  Java.  I've  a  good  big  mind  to  go  home  to 
bed." 

Then  we  saw  little  Mrs.  Johnson's  blue  linen 
dress  hurrying  toward  us  with  the  waving  line  of 
the  blue  feather  above  her,  like  a  last  little  daring 
flourish  by  the  artist  of  her.  She  was  really  very 
pretty  and  childish,  with  a  manner  of  moving  in 
wreaths  and  lines  and  never  in  solids.  Her  little 
feet  twinkled  along  like  the  signature  to  the  pretty 
picture  of  her.  But  yet  she  was  not  appealing. 
She  was  like  an  overconfident  child  whom  you 
long  to  shut  in  a  closet.  Yes,  I  understand  that  I 
sound  like  a  barbarian  in  these  days  of  splendid 
corrective  treatment  of  children  who  are  studied  and 
not  stormed  at.  And  in  this  treatment  I  believe  to 
the  uttermost.  And  yet,  overconfidence  in  a  child 
is  of  all  things  the  most  —  I  will  amend  what  I  said  : 
Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson  was  like  an  overconfi- 
dent child  whom  you  long  to  shut  in  a  closet  because 
of  your  ignorance  of  what  else  on  earth  to  do.  No 
doubt  there  is  a  better  way,  but  none  of  us  knew  it. 
And  she  came  toward  us  intent,  every  one  felt,  on 
some  radical  change  in  arrangements,  though  the  big 
room  was  now  in  the  pink  of  appointment  and  ready 
to  be  left  while  the  committee  went  home  to  sup  on 


1 32        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"just  sauce  and  bread-and-butter,"  and  to  don  silk 
waists. 

We  saw  little  Mrs.  Johnson  hurrying  toward  us, 
upon  a  background  of  the  great,  patient  room,  all- 
tolerant  of  its  petty  bedizening.  And  then  Mrs. 
Johnson,  we  in  Calliope's  booth,  the  sliding,  rollick- 
ing children,  and  all  the  others  about  stood  still,  at 
the  sharp,  peculiar  terrifying  alarm  and  summons 
which  seemed  to  imprint  something  on  the  very  air, 
stabbing  us  with  Halt  that  we  might  count  the  bell 
strokes  for  the  ward,  and  clanging  a  wild  fury  of  the 
quick-stroke  command  to  help.  For  the  first  time 
in  two  years  the  Friendship  fire  alarm  was  sounding 
from  the  tower  above  our  heads. 

There  was  a  panting  sweep  and  scurry  for  the 
edges  of  the  room,  as  instantly  a  gong  on  the  wall 
sounded  with  the  alarm,  and  the  two  big  sliding 
doors  went  back,  scattering  like  feathers  the  innu- 
merable Javanese  trifles  that  had  been  tacked  there. 
Forward,  down  the  rug-hung  vista,  plunged  the  two 
big  horses  of  the  department.  We  saw  the  Java 
tea-table  borne  to  earth,  the  Javanese  exhibits  adorn- 
ing outlying  counters  swept  away,  and  all  the  "  dec- 
oration probabilities "  vanish  in  savage  wreck. 
Then  the  quaintly  picturesque  harnesses  fell  to  the 
horses'  necks,  their  hoofs  trampled  terrifyingly  on 
the  loose  boards  of  the  floor,  and  forth  from  the 
yawning  doors  the  horses  pounded,  dragging  the 


THE  JAVA    ENTERTAINMENT  133 

piece  de  resistance,  with  garlands  on  its  sides,  the  pink 
zouave  cushion  crushed  beneath  it,  and  the  flag  of  the 
Netherlands  streaming  from  the  stack.  Horses 
rushed  thither  in  competition,  came  thundering  at 
the  doors,  and  galloped  to  place  before  the  two  carts. 
I  think  not  a  full  minute  can  have  been  consumed. 
But  the  ruin  of  the  Java  entertainment  committee's 
work  was  unbelievably  complete.  Though  there 
had  been  not  a  fire  in  Friendship  Village  in  two 
years,  that  night,  of  all  nights,  Jimmy  Sturgis's 
"  hay-barn,"  for  the  omnibus  horses,  "  took  it  on 
itself,"  it  was  said,  "  to  go  to  work  an'  burn  up." 
And  Jimmy's  barn  is  outside  the  city  limits,  so  that 
the  piece  de  resistance  had  to  be  used.  And  Jimmy 
is  in  the  fire-department,  so  that  the  company  gal- 
loped informally  to  the  rescue  without  the  benefit  of 
the  mayor's  authority. 

As  the  last  of  the  department  disappeared,  and 
the  women  of  the  committee  stood  looking  at  one 
another  —  tired  with  the  deadly  tiredness  of  a  day 
such  as  theirs  —  a  little  blue  linen  figure  sprang 
upon  a  chair  and  clasped  her  hands  behind  her,  and 
a  blue  ostrich  feather  lifted  and  dipped  as  she  spoke. 

"  Quickly  !  "  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnson  cried. 
"All  hands  at  work  now!  Mrs.  Sykes,  will  you 
set  up  the  tea-table  ?  You  can  get  more  dishes  from 
my  house.  Mrs.  Toplady,  this  booth,  please.  You 
can  make  it  right  in  no  time.  Mrs.  Holcomb,  you 


134       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

will  have  to  do  your  booth  entirely  over  —  you  can 
get  some  things  from  my  house.  Miss  Marsh  — 
ah,  Calliope  Marsh,  you  must  go  to  .my  house  for 
my  lace  curtains — " 

She  smiled  ingratiatingly  and  surely  arbitrarily, 
for  we  all  knew  full  well  that  there  was  'absolutely 
nothing  to  smile  at.  And  with  that  Calliope's  in- 
dignation, as  she  afterward  said,  "  kind  of  crystal- 
lized and  boiled  over/'  I  remember  how  she 
stood,  hugging  her  thin  little  arms  and  speaking 
her  defiance. 

"  I  donno  how  you  feel,  Mis'  Johnson/'  she  said 
dryly,  "  but,  my  idea,  Bedlam  let  loose  ain't  near 
quaint  enough  for  a  Java  entertainment.  Nor  I 
don't  think  it's  what  you  might  say  real  Java, 
either.  Things  here  looks  to  me  too  flexible. 
I'm  goin'  home  an'  go  to  bed." 

There  was  no  doubt  what  the  rest  meant  to  do. 
With  one  impulse  they  turned  toward  the  door  as 
Calliope  turned,  and  silently  they  took  the  way  that 
the  piece  de  resistance  had  taken  before  them.  Lit- 
tle Mrs.  Johnson  stood  on  her  chair  making  many 
gestures ;  but  no  one  went  back. 

Calliope  looked  straight  before  her. 

"  My  feet  ache  like  I  done  my  thinkin'  with  'em/' 
she  said,  "an*  my  head  feels  like  I'd  stood  on 
it.  An'  what's  it  all  for  ?  " 

"  Regular  clock  performance,"  Mis'  Postmaster 


THE  JAVA   ENTERTAINMENT  135 

Sykes  assented.  "  We've  ticked  hard  all  day  long 
an*  ain't  got  a  thing  out  of  it.  I  often  think  it's 
that  way  with  my  housework,  but  I  did  think  the 
Ladies'  Missionary  could  tick,  when  it  did  tick, 
for  eternity.  I'm  tuckered  to  the  bone." 

"  Nobody  knows,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was 
Mame-Bliss,  "  how  my  poor  neck  aches.  It's  there 
I  suffer  first  an'  most." 

Mis'  Amanda  Toplady,  who  was  walking  behind 
the  rest,  took  three  great  steps  and  caught  us  up 
and  spoke,  a  little  breathlessly  :  — 

"  Land,  land,"  she  said, "  I  guess  I'll  go  home  an* 
pop  some  corn.  Seems  to  me  it'd  smell  sort  of 
cosy  an'  homelike  an'  soothin'  down.  It's  a  grand 
thing  to  smell  when  you're  feelin'  far  off  from  your- 
self." 

Calliope  laughed  a  little  then. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  anyhow  I  ain't  got  my  silk 
waist  to  get  into  —  and  I  didn't  hev  a  nice  one  to 
put  on  anyway.  I  was  wishin'  I  had,  and  now  my 
wish  has  come  true  by  bein'  took  away  from  me, 
bodily  —  like  they  will.  But  just  the  same  - 

She  turned  on  the  walk  and  faced  us,  and  hugged 
her  thin  little  arms. 

"  A  while  ago,"  she  said,  "I  give  that  little  woman 
there  six  months  to  get  'herself  the  cold  shoulder  all 
around.  Well,  the  time  ain't  up  yet  —  but  both 
my  shoulders  feels  stone  cold ! " 


IX 


THE    COLD    SHOULDER 


THERE  is  something  more  about  Mrs.  Oliver 
Wheeler  Johnson. 

Did  you  ever  look  through  an  old  school-book  of 
your  own  and,  say,  on  the  history  picture  of  Vesuvius 
in  eruption  impose  your  own  memory  of  Pompeii, 
visited  in  these  twenty  years  since  you  studied 
about  it ;  and  have  you  not  stared  hard  at  the  time 
between  and  felt  yourself  some  one  other  than  that 
one  who  once  dreamed  over  the  Vesuvius  picture  ? 
Or,  years  after  you  read  the  Letters,  you  have  made 
a  little  mark  below  Cicero's  cry  from  exile,  "  Oh,  that 
I  had  been  less  eager  for  life  !  "  and  you  look  at  the 
cry  and  at  the  mark,  and  you  and  one  of  these  be- 
come an  anachronism  —  but  you  are  not  sure  which 
it  is  that  so  becomes.  So  now,  in  reading  over  these 
notes  some  while  after  I  have  set  them  down,  I  am 
minded  here  to  give  you  my  look  ahead  to  the  end 
of  the  summer  and  to  slip  in  some  account  of  what 
happened  as  a  closing  of  the  tale.  And  I  confess 
that  something  about  me  —  perhaps  it  is  the  Cus- 

136 


THE   COLD    SHOULDER  137 

todian  herself — likes  this  way  of  pretending  a  free- 
dom from  time  and  of  looking  upon  its  fruit  to  say 
which  seeds  have  grown  and  which  have  not. 

Friendship  Village  is  not  superstitious,  but  when 
curious  coincidences  occur  we  do,  as  we  say,  "take 
down  note."  And  it  did  seem  like  a  judgment  upon 
us  that,  a  little  time  after  the  Java  fiasco,  and  while 
indignation  was  yet  at  high  noon,  Mrs.  Oliver 
Wheeler  Johnson  fell  ill. 

At  first  I  think  we  affected  not  to  know  it. 
When  she  did  not  appear  at  church,  none  of  us 
mentioned  it  for  a  Sunday  or  two.  Then  when 
some  one  casually  noted  her  absence  we  said, "  Oh, 
wasn't  she  ?  Got  little  cold,  likely."  That  we  saw 
her  no  more  down  town  or  "  brushing  up  "  about 
her  door  we  facilely  laid  to  chance.  When  the  vil- 
lage heard  that  her  maid  —  who  always  offended  by 
talking  almost  in  a  whisper  —  had  once  or  twice  ex- 
cused her  mistress  to  callers,  every  one  shut  lips  and 
hardened  hearts  and  said  some  folk  acted  very  funny 
about  their  calling  duties.  But  when,  at  the  twelve 
o'clock  breakfast  of  the  new  minister's  wife —  ("  Like 
enough  breakfast  at  noon  was  a  real  Bible  custom," 
the  puzzled  devotees  solved  that  amazing  hour), 
Mrs.  Johnson  did  not  appear,  the  village  was  forced 
to  admit  that  something  must  be  wrong. 

Moreover,  against  its  will  the  behaviour  of  young 
Mr.  Johnson  was  gravely  alarming  Friendship. 


1 38       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Mr.  Johnson  was  in  real  estate  and  insurance  in 
the  city,  and  this  did  not  impress  the  village  as  a 
serious  business.  "  Because,  what  does  he  sell!  "  as 
Abigail  Arnold  said.  "  We  know  he  don't  own 
property.  He  rents  the  very  house  they  live  in.  A 
doctor's  a  doctor  an'  he  gives  pills,  an'  a  store's  a  store 
with  the  kind  o'  thing  you  need.  But  it  don't  seem 
like  that  man  could  make  a  real  good  livin'  for 
her,  dealin'  vague  in  nothin'  that  way."  His  income, 
it  was  felt,  was  problematical,  and  the  village  had  set- 
tled it  that  what  the  Oliver  Wheeler  Johnsons'  had 
was  chiefly  wedding  presents  "an'  high-falutin' tastes." 
But,  in  the  face  of  the  evidence,  every  afternoon  at 
three  o'clock  the  young  husband  ordered  a  phaeton 
from  Jimmy  Sturgis  and  came  home  from  the  city 
to  take  his  wife  to  drive.  Between  shutters  the  vil- 
lage saw  that  little  Mrs.  Johnson's  face  did  look 
betrayingly  pale,  and  the  blue  ostrich  plume  lay 
motionless  on  her  bright  hair. 

"  I  guess  Mis'  Johnson's  real  run  down,"  her  ac- 
quaintances said  to  one  another  uneasily.  Still  we 
did  not  go  to  see  her.  The  weeks  went  by  until,  one 
morning,  Calliope  met  the  little  new  Friendship  doc- 
tor on  the  street  and  asked  him  about  his  patient. 

"  I  up  an'  ask'  him  flat  out,"  Calliope  confessed 
afterward ;  "  not  that  I  really  cared  to  be  told,  but 
I  hated  to  know  I  was  heathenish.  You  don't  like 
the  feelin'.  To  know  they  ain't  heathens  is  all 


THE   COLD   SHOULDER  139 

that  keeps  some  folks  from  bein  'em.  Well,  so  I 
ask'  him.  f  Doctor  Heron/  s'l, <  is  that  Mis'  John- 
son real  sick,  or  is  she  just  sickish  ? '  He  looks  at 
me  an'  —  c  Looks  pretty  sick,  don't  she  ?  '  s'e. 
<  Well,'  s'l,  '  I've  seen  folks  look  real  rich  that 
wa'n't  it  by  right-down  pocketbook  evidence.'  c  Been 
to  see  her  ? '  s'e.  f  No,'  s'l,  short.  c  Might  drop 
in,'  s'e,  an*  walks  off,  lookin'  cordial.  That  little 
Doctor  Heron  is  that  close-mouthed  I  declare  if  I 
don't  respect  him  same  as  the  minister  an'  the  pipe- 
organ  an'  the  skippin'  hills." 

So,  as  midsummer  passed  and  found  the  little 
woman  still  ailing,  I  obeyed  an  idle  impulse  and 
went  one  evening  to  see  her.  I  recall  that  as  soon 
as  I  had  crossed  her  threshold  the  old  influence  came 
upon  me,  and  I  was  minded  to  run  from  the  place 
in  sheer  distaste  of  the  overemphasis  and  the  lifted, 
pointed  chin  and  the  fluttering  importances  of  her 
presence.  I  was  ashamed  enough  that  this  should 
be  so,  but  so  it  was  ;  and  I  held  my  ground  to 
await  her  coming  to  the  room  only  by  a  measure 
of  will. 

I  sat  with  Mrs.  Johnson  for  an  hour  that  evening. 
And  it  would  seem  that,  as  is  the  habit  of  many, 
having  taken  my  own  way  I  was  straightway  pos- 
sessed to  draw  others  after  me.  There  are  those 
who  behave  similarly  and  who  set  cunningly  to 
work  to  gain  their  own  ends,  as,  for  example,  I  did. 


140       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE    STORIES 

For  one  night  soon  I  devised  a  little  feast,  which 
I  have  always  held  to  be  a  good  doorway  to  any 
enterprise,  and,  at  the  Friendship-appointed  supper 
hour  of  six,  I  made  my  table  as  fair  as  possible,  as 
has  been  done  in  like  case  ever  since  butter  was  first 
served  "  in  a  lordly  dish."  And  my  guests  were 
Calliope,  without  whom  no  festival  is  wholly  in 
keeping,  and  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss, 
and  Mis'*  Postmaster  Sykes,  and  that  great,  tolerant 
Mis'  Amanda  Toplady. 

Because  they  had  arrived  so  unsuspectingly  I 
own  myself  to  have  felt  guilty  enough  when,  in 
that  comfortable  half-hour  after  a  new  and  delectable 
dessert  had  been  pronounced  upon,  I  suggested 
with  what  casualness  I  might  summon  that  we  five 
pay  a  visit  that  night  to  Mrs.  Oliver  Wheeler 
Johnson. 

"Land!"  said  Mis'  Holcomb,  " I've  thought  I 
would  an'  then  I've  thought  I  wouldn't  till  I  feel 
all  two-faced  about  myself.  I  donno.  Sometimes 
I  think  one  way  an'  sometimes  I  think  the  other. 
Are  you  ever  like  that  ?  "  W 

"  I  s'pose,"  said  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  majesti- 
cally, "  that  them  in  our  position  ought  to  overlook. 
I  donno  's  'twould  hurt  us  any  to  go,"  she  added 
graciously. 

Calliope's  eyes  twinkled. 

"That's  it,"  she  said;  "let  them  that's  got  the 


THE   COLD   SHOULDER  141 

social  position  to  overlook  things  be  Christian  an* 
overlook  'em." 

That  great  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  folded  her 
hands,  dimpled  like  a  baby  giant's. 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  go,"  she  said  simply ;  "  I've  got 
some  grape  jell  that  looks  to  me  like  it  wasn't  goin' 
to  keep  long,  an'  I'd  be  thankful  to  be  on  terms 
with  her  so's  I  could  carry  it  in  to  her.  They  ain't 
a  single  other  invalid  in  Friendship." 

Calliope  sprang  to  her  feet  and  crossed  her  little 
arms,  a  hand  hugging  either  shoulder. 

"  Well  said  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  do  let's  go  !  I'm 
sick  to  death  of  slidin'  off  the  subject  whenever  it 
comes  up  in  my  mind." 

So,  in  the  fair  October  dusk,  we  five  went  down 
the  Plank  Road  —  where  Summer  lingers  late. 
The  air  was  gentle  with  the  soft,  impending  dark. 
I  wonder  why  the  colonnade  of  sweet  influences, 
down  which  we  stepped,  did  not  win  us  to  them- 
selves. But  I  remember  how,  instead,  our  im- 
minent visit  drew  us  back  to  the  days  of  Mrs. 
Johnson's  coming,  so  that  presently  we  were  going 
over  the  incident  of  the  Java  entertainment,  and,  as 
Calliope  would  have  put  it,  "  crystallizing  and  boil- 
ing over  "  again  in  the  old  distaste. 

But  when  we  reached  the  little  cottage  of  the 
Johnsons,  our  varied  motives  for  the  visit  were  ab- 
ruptly merged  in  a  common  anxiety.  For  Doctor 


1 42        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE  STORIES 

Heron's  buggy  stood  at  the  gate  and  the  little  one- 
story  cottage  was  dark  save  for  a  light  in  what  we 
knew  to  be  a  corner  bedroom.  The  hallway  was 
open  to  the  night,  but  though  we  could  distinctly 
hear  the  bell  jingle  in  the  kitchen  no  one  answered 
the  summons.  Then,  there  being  somewhere  about 
a  murmur  of  voices,  Calliope  stepped  within  and 
called  softly :  — 

"  Doctor,  Doctor  Heron — you  there?  Is  they 
anything  we  can  do  ?  " 

The  doctor  came  momentarily  to  the  lighted  door- 
way down  the  hall. 

"  That  you,  Calliope  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  might 
come  here,  will  you  ?  Tell  the  rest  to  sit  down 
somewheres.  And  you  tell  Mr.  Johnson  he  can 
come." 

On  which,  from  out  the  dark  living  room,  some 
one  emerged  very  swiftly  and  without  a  word  pushed 
by  us  all  where  we  were  crowded  in  the  passage  and 
strode  down  to  the  little  lighted  chamber.  Calliope 
hurried  after  him,  and  we  four  shrank  back  in  sud- 
den dread  and  slipped  silently  into  the  room  which 
the  young  husband  had  left,  and  stood  together  in 
the  dimness.  Was  she  so  sick  ?  In  that  room  he 
must  have  heard  the  door-bell  as  we  had  heard  it, 
and  yet  he  had  not  answered.  Was  it  possible  that 
we  had  come  too  late  ? 

While  we  waited  we  said  nothing  at  all,  save  that 


THE   COLD   SHOULDER  143 

great  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady,  who  said  three  times 
or  four,  "  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  I'm  always  waitin' 
till  somethin's  too  late  —  either  me  or  the  other 
thing."  It  seemed  very  long  before  we  heard  some 
stir,  but  it  can  have  been  only  a  few  minutes  until 
the  doctor  came  down  the  little  hall  and  groped  into 
the  room.  In  answer  to  all  that  we  asked  he  merely 
occupied  himself  in  lighting  a  match  and  setting  it 
deliberately  to  the  candles  on  the  table  and  adjusting 
their  shades.  They  were,  we  noted  afterward,  the 
same  candles  whose  presence  we  had  detected  and 
derided  at  those  long  ago  tete-a-tete  suppers  in  that 
house.  The  light  glowed  on  the  young  doctor's 
pale  face  as  he  looked  at  us,  each  in  turn,  before  he 
spoke.  And  when  he  had  done  with  his  slow 
scrutiny  —  I  think  that  we  cannot  wholly  have 
fancied  its  accusation  —  he  said  only  :  — 

"  Yes,  she's  pretty  sick.     I  can't  tell  yet." 

Then  he  turned  and  closed  the  outer  door  and 
stood  leaning  against  it,  looking  up  the  hall. 

"  Miss  Marsh  !  "  he  called. 

But  why  did  the  man  not  tell  us  something,  we 
wondered ;  and  there  flashed  in  my  mind  Calliope's 
reference  to  the  pipe-organ  and  the  skipping  hills. 
At  all  events,  Calliope  would  tell  us. 

And  so  she  did.  We  heard  her  step  in  the  hall, 
coming  quickly  and  yet  with  a  manner  of  exceeding 
care.  I  think  that  with  the  swift  sense  which  wings 


144       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

before  intelligence,  the  others  understood  before 
they  saw  her,  even  as  I  understood.  Calliope 
stopped  in  the  doorway  as  if  she  could  trust  herself 
to  go  no  farther.  And  she  was  holding  something 
in  her  arms. 

"  Calliope,"  we  said ;  "  Calliope  .  .  ." 

She  looked  down  at  that  which  she  held,  and  then 
she  looked  at  us.  And  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes, 
but  her  face  was  brighter  than  I  have  ever  known  it. 

"  It's  a  baby,"  she  said,  "  a  little  bit  of  a  baby. 
Her  baby.  An'  it  makes  me  feel  —  it  makes  me 
feel  —  oh,"  she  broke  off,  "don't  it  make  you  feel 
that  way,  too  ?  " 

We  looked  at  one  another,  and  avoided  one 
another's  look,  and  then  looked  long  at  the  baby. 
I  do  not  remember  that  we  said  anything  at  all,  or 
if  we  did  so,  that  it  bore  a  meaning.  But  an  instant 
after  Calliope  gave  the  baby  to  the  nurse  who  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  we  all  tiptoed  down  to  the 
kitchen  by  common  consent.  And  it  was  plain 
that  Mrs.  Johnson's  baby  made  us  feel  that  way,  too. 

In  our  desire  to  be  of  tardy  service  we  did  the 
most  absurd  things.  We  took  possession  of  the 
kitchen,  rejoicing  that  we  found  the  supper  dishes 
uncared  for,  and  we  heated  a  great  kettle  of  water, 
and  washed  and  wiped  and  put  away,  as  softly  as 
we  could ;  and  then  we  "  brushed  up  around."  I 
think  that  only  the  need  of  silence  kept  us  from 


THE   COLD   SHOULDER  145 

cleaning  windows.  When  the  nurse  appeared  — 
who  had  arrived  that  day  unknown  of  Friendship  — 
we  sprang  as  one  to  do  her  bidding.  We  sent  the 
little  maid  to  bed,  we  tidied  the  living  room,  walk- 
ing tiptoe,  and  then  we  went  back  through  the 
kitchen  and  sat  down  on  the  little  side  "stoop." 
And  all  this  time  we  had  addressed  one  another  only 
about  the  tasks  which  we  had  in  hand. 

After  a  little  silence, 

"  The  milkman  was  quite  late  this  morning," 
observed  Mis'  Holcomb. 

"  Well,  he's  begun  to  deliver  in  cans  instead  o' 
bottles,"  Mis'  Sykes  explained;  "  it  takes  him  some 
longer  to  get  around.  He  says  bottles  makes  his  wife 
just  that  much  more  to  do." 

Then  we  fell  silent  again. 

It  was  Calliope,  sitting  on  the  porch  step  outside, 
where  it  was  dark,  who  at  last  had  the  courage  to  be 
articulate. 

"I  hope — I  hope"  she  said,  "she's  goin'  to  be 
all  right." 

Mis'  Sykes  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  bracket  lamp 
within. 

"  I'll  go  bail,"  she  said,  "  that  little  you-do-as-I- 
say  chin'll  carry  her  through.  I'm  glad  she's  got 
it." 

Just  then  we  heard  the  thin  crying  of  the  child 
and  we  could  divine  Calliope,  that  on  the  step  where 


146        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

she  sat  she  was  hugging  her  arms  and  rocking  some- 
what, to  and  fro. 

"Like  enough,"  she  said,  "oh,  like  enough  — 
folks  ain't  so  cramped  about  runnin'  their  own 
feelin's  as  they  think  they  are  !  " 

To  this  we  murmured  something  indefinite  in 
sound  but  positive  enough  in  sense.  And  we  all 
knew  what  we  all  knew. 

"  Let's  go  out  around  the  house  to  the  front  gate," 
said  that  great  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady,  abruptly. 
"  Have  any  of  you  ladies  got  two  handkerchiefs?  " 

"I've  got  two,"  said  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  "an' 
I  ain't  used  either  one.  Do  you  want  the  one  with 
essence  or  the  one  without?" 

"  I  ain't  partial,"  said  Mis'  Amanda. 

We  rose  and  stumbled  along  the  grassy  path  that 
led  round  the  house.  At  the  gate  we  met  Doctor 
Heron. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "well."  And  after  a 
moment,  "  Will  —  will  any  of  you  be  here  in  the 
morning  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  we  all  said  simply. 

"  That's  good,"  he  commented  shortly,  "  I  didn't 
know." 

We  five  had  to  separate  at  the  first  corner  to  go 
our  home  ways,  and  we  stood  for  a  moment  under 
the  gas-light.  I  remember  how,  just  then,  Peter's 
father  came  singing  past  us,  like  one  of  the  Friend- 


THE   COLD   SHOULDER  147 

ship  family  who  did  not  understand  his  kinship. 
Even  as  we  five  had  not  understood  ours. 

"  You  haven't  got  a  shawl,  hev  you  ? "  Mis' 
Sykes  said  to  me  solicitously. 

"  The  nights  have  been  some  chilly  on  a  person's 
shoulders  for  a  day  or  two  now,"  said  Mis'  Hoi- 
comb. 

Calliope  put  her  hand  up  quickly  to  her  throat. 

"  Quit,"  she  said.  "  All  of  you.  Thank  God. 
An'  shake  hands.  I  tell  you,  after  this  I  bet  I'll 
run  my  own  feelin's  about  folks  or  I'll  bring  down 
the  sky  an'  make  new  feelin's  !  Oh,"  said  Calliope, 
"  don't  her — an'  now — an'  the  baby —  an' — oh,  an' 
that  bright  star  winkin'  over  that  hitchin'  post,  make 
things  seem  —  easy  ?  Good  night.  I  can't  stand 
out  here  any  longer." 

But  when  we  had  gone  away  a  few  steps,  Calliope 
called  us  back.  And  as  we  turned  again, 

"  To  bring  down  the  sky,"  she  repeated,  "  I  bet 
that's  the  way  God  meant  us  to  do.  They  ain't  any 
of  us  got  enough  to  us  to  piece  out  without  it !  " 


EVENING    DRESS 

I  HAVE  said  that  Daphne  Street  has  been  paved 
within  the  past  year,  but  I  had  not  heard  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  miracle  had  been  wrought  until 
the  day  when  Calliope's  brief  stay  in  the  village  ended 
and  she  came  to  tell  me  good-by — and,  more  than  in- 
cidentally, to  show  me  some  samples  of  a  dress  which 
she  might  have,  and  a  dress  which  she  wouldn't 
have,  and  a  dress  which  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  have. 

"  We  don't  dress  much  here  in  Friendship  Vil- 
lage," she  observed.  "  Not  but  what  we'd  like  to, 
but  we  ain't  the  time  nor  the  means  nor  the  places 
to  wear  to.  But  they  was  one  night  —  " 

She  looked  at  me,  as  always  when  she  means  to 
tell  a  story,  somewhat  with  the  manner  of  asking  a 
permission. 

"  None  of  the  low-neck'  fashion-plates  used  to 
seem  real  to  us,"  she  said.  "  We  used  to  look  at 
'em  pinned  up  in  Lyddy  Ember's  dressmakin' 

148 


EVENING   DRESS  149 

windows,  ah-ahing  in  their  low  pink  an*  long  blue, 
an'  we'd  look  'em  over  an'  think  tolerant  enough, 
like  about  sea-serpents.  But  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  bit  hold  rill  vital,  because  the  plates  was 
so  young  an'  smilin'  an'  party-seemin',  an'  we  was 
old  an'  busy,  like  you  get,  an'  considered  past  the 
dressin'  age.  Still,  it  made  kind  of  a  nice  thing  to 
do  on  the  way  home  from  the  grocery  hot  fore- 
noons —  draw  up  there  on  the  shady  side,  where 
the  street  kitters  some  into  a  curve,  an'  look  at 
Lyddy's  plates,  an'  choose,  like  you  was  goin'  to 
get  one. 

"  Land  knows  we  needed  some  oasises  on  that 
street  from  the  grocery  up  home.  Daphne  Street, 
our  main  street,  didn't  always  use'  to  be  what  it  is 
now  —  neat  little  wooden  blpcks  an'  a  stone  curb. 
You  know  how  it  use'  to  be  —  no  curb  an'  the  road 
a  sight,  over  your  shoe-tops  with  mud  in  the 
wet,  an'  over  your  shoe-tops  with  sand  when  it 
come  dry.  We  ladies  used  to  talk  a  good  deal 
about  it,  but  the  men  knew  it  meant  money  to  hev 
it  fixed,  an'  so  they  told  us  hevin'  it  fixed  meant 
cuttin'  the  trees  down,  an'  that  kept  us  quiet — all 
but  the  Friendship  Married  Ladies  Cemetery  Im- 
provement Sodality. 

"Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  was  president  o'  the 
Sodality  last  year,  you  know,  —  she's  most  always 
president  of  everything,  —  an'  we'd  been  workin' 


150        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

quite  hard  all  that  winter,  an*  had  got  things  in  the 
cemetery  rill  ship-shape  —  at  least  I  mean  things  on 
the  cemetery  was.  An*  at  one  o'  the  July  meetings 
last  summer  Mis'  Sykes  up  an'  proposed  that  we 
give  over  workin'  for  the  dead  an*  turn  to  the  living 
an'  pave  the  main  street  of  Friendship  Village. 

"'True/  she  says,  cour  constitution  states  that 
the  purpose  of  our  Sodality  shall  be  to  keep  up  the 
graves  of  our  townspeople  an*  make  'em  attractive 
to  others.  But,'  says  she,  c  when  they  ain't  enough 
of  us  dead  to  occupy  all  the  time,  the  only  Chris- 
tian way  to  remedy  that  is  to  work  for  folks  before 
they  die,  while  we're  waitin'  for  their  graves.' 

"  This  seemed  reasonable,  an'  we  voted  unani- 
mous to  pave  Daphne  Street.  An'  on  the  way 
home  Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  an' 
I  see  Timothy  Toplady  settin'  in  the  post-office 
store,  an'  we  went  in  to  tell  him  an'  Silas  Sykes 
about  it.  But  before  we  could  start  in,  Silas  says, 
eyebrows  all  eager,  c  Ain't  you  heard  ?  ' 

" c  Heard  what  ? '  says  his  wife,  kind  o'  cross, 
bein'  he  was  her  wedded  husband  an'  she  hadnt 
heard. 

" £  'Bout  Threat  Hubbelthwait,'  says  Silas,  lookin' 
at  Mis'  Toplady  an'  me,  bein's  Mis'  Sykes  was  his 
wife.  c  Drunk  again,'  says  Silas,  c  an'  fiddlin'  for 
dear  life,  an'  won't  let  anybody  into  the  hotel. 
Mis'  Hubbelthwait  has  gone  over  to  her  mother's, 


EVENING   DRESS  151 

an*  the  hired  girl  with  her;  an'  Threat's  settin'  in 
the  bar  an'  playin'  all  the  hymn  tunes  he  knows.' 

"  It  wasn't  the  first  time  it  had  happened,  you 
know.  Threat  an'  his  wife  an'  the  hired  girl  keep 
the  only  hotel  in  Friendship  Village  —  when  Threat 
is  sober.  When  he  isn't,  he  sometimes  closes  up 
the  house  an'  turns  out  whoever  happens  to  be 
there,  an'  won't  let  a  soul  in — though,  of  course, 
not  much  of  anybody  ever  comes  to  Friendship 
anyway,  excep'  now  an'  then  an  automobile  on  its 
way  somewheres.  An'  there  Threat  will  set  in  the 
bar,  sometimes  most  of  one  week,  sometimes  most 
of  two,  an'  scrape  away  on  the  only  tunes  he  knows 
—  all  hymns,  c  Just  As  I  Am/  an'  c  Can  A  Little 
Child  Like  Me  ? '  Threat  don't  mean  to  be  sacri- 
legious; he  shows  that  by  never  singin'  them  two 
hymns  in  church,  when  they're  give  out. 

"c  Land  ! '  says  Mis'  Sykes,  when  Silas  got  through, 
c  what  men  are  ! ' 

" c  We  ain't  so  much  as  woman,  lemme  tell  you,' 
says  Silas,  right  crisp.  Which  wasn't  what  he  meant, 
an'  we  all  laughed  at  him,  so  he  was  a  little  mad  to 
start  with. 

" c  The  Sodality's  decided  to  pave  Daphne  Street,' 
Mis'  Sykes  mentions  then,  simple. 

" c  Pave  what  ?  '  shouts  Silas  —  Silas  always  seems 
to  think  the  more  you  do  in  sound  the  more  you'll 
do  in  sense. 


152       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

" c  Do  what  to  Daphne  Street  ? '  says  Timothy, 
whirlin'  from  the  peanut  roaster. 

" c  Pave  Daphne  Street/  says  Mis'  Sykes  an*  Mis 
Toplady  an*  me,  wonderin'. 

"  Silas  wrapped  his  arms  around  his  own  shoulders. 

" c  When,'  says  he,  lettin'  his  head  lurch  with  his 
own  emphasizing  cdid  the  Common  Council  hear 
about  this  ? ' 

" '  They  ain't  heard. about  it/  says  Mis'  Sykes, c  no 
more'n  we  ever  hear  anything  about  them.' 

"  Silas  an'  Timothy  is  both  aldermen,  an'  rill  sen- 
sitive over  it.  I  guess  the  Common  Council  always 
is  a  delicate  subject,  ain't  it  ? 

"  Mebbe  it  wasn't  a  rill  diplomatic  way  to  begin, 
but  it  hadn't  entered  the  Sodality's  head  that  the 
town  wouldn't  be  glad  to  hev  the  pavin'  done  if  the 
Sodality  was  willin'  to  do  it.  Ain't  it  a  hard  thing 
to  learn  that  it  ain't  all  willingness,  nor  yet  all  bein' 
capable,  that  gets  things  done  in  the  world  ?  It's 
part  just  edgin'  round  an'  edgin'  round. 

"  What  did  the  Common  Council  do  that  night 
but  call  a  special  meetin'  an'  vote  not  to  order  any 
city  pavin'  done  that  present  year.  Every  member 
was  there  but  Threat  Hubbelthwait,  who  was 
fiddlin',  an*  every  vote  was  switched  by  Silas  an* 
Timothy  to  be  unanimous,  excep'  Eppleby  Hoi- 
comb's  vote.  Eppleby,  we  heard  afterwards,  said 
that  when  a  pack  o'  women  made  up  their  minds  to 


EVENING   DRESS  153 

pave,  they'd  pave  if  it  was  to  pave  —  some  place 
that  Eppleby  hadn't  ought  to  V  mentioned ;  an* 
he  was  goin'  to  be  on  the  pavin'  side.  But  then, 
Eppleby  is  the  gentlest  husband  in  Friendship  Vil- 
lage, an*  known  to  be. 

"  Sodality  met  special  next  day,  not  so  much  to 
do  anything  as  to  let  it  be  known  that  we'd  took 
action.  This  we  done  by  votin'  to  lay  low  till  such 
time  as  we  could  order  the  wooden  blocks.  We 
preferred  to  pave  peaceable,  it  bein'  hot  weather. 

"  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mis'  Hol- 
comb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  an'  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers 
an'  I  walked  home  together  from  that  meetin'.  It 
was  a  blisterin'  July  afternoon  —  one  of  them  after- 
noons that  melts  itself  out  flat,  same  as  a  dropped 
pepp'mint  on  a  brick  walk,  an'  you're  left  stickin' 
in  it  helpless  as  a  fly,  an'  generally  buzzin'.  I  rec- 
'lect  we  was  buzzin'  —  comin'  down  Daphne  Street 
in  that  chokin'  dust  an'  no  pavement. 

"/It's  a  dog's  life,  livin'  in  a  little  town  —  in 
some  respects,'  I  remember  Mis'  Sykes  says. 

"  <  Well,'  says  Mis'  Toplady,  tolerant,  «  I  know. 
I  know  it  is.  But  I'd  rather  live  in  a  little  town 
an'  dog  it  out  than  go  up  to  the  city  an*  turn  wolf, 
same  as  some.' 

"  An'  yet  we  all  felt  the  same,  every  one  of  us. 
They  ain't  a  woman  livin'  in  a  little  place  that  don't 
feel  the  same,  now  and  again.  It's  quiet  an'  it's 


154        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE  LOVE    STORIES 

easy  housework,  an'  you  get  to  know  folks  well. 
But  oh,  none  of  it  what  you  might  say  glitters. 
An'  they  ain't  no  woman  whatever  —  no  matter 
how  good  a  wife  an'  mother  an'  Christian  an'  even 
housekeeper  she  is  —  that  don't,  'way  down  deep  in 
her  heart,  feel  that  hankerin'  after  some  sort  o'  glitter. 

"  So  it  was  natural  enough  that  we  should  draw 
up  at  Lyddy's  dressmakin'  window  an'  rest  ourself. 
An'  that  afternoon  we'd  have  done  so,  anyway,  for 
she  hed  been  pinnin'  up  her  new  summer  plates  — 
Lyddy  don't  believe  in  rushin'  the  season.  An'  no 
sooner  had  we  got  a  good  look  at  'em  —  big  col- 
oured sheets  they  was,  with  full-length  pictures  — 
than  Mis'  Toplady  leaned  'way  forward,  her  hands 
on  her  knees,  an'  stood  lookin'  at  'em  the  way  you 
look  at  the  parade. 

"  £  Well,  look-a-there,'  she  says.  '  Look  at  that 
one.' 

"  The  one  she  meant  was  a  woman  with  her  hair 
all  plaited  an'  fringed  an'  cut  bias,  an'  with  a  little 
white  hat  o'  lilacs  'bout  as  big  as  a  cork ;  an'  her 
dress  —  my  land!  Her  dress  was  long  an'  rill  light 
blue,  an'  seemed  like  it  must  have  been  paper,  it  was 
so  fancy.  It  didn't  seem  like  cloth  goods  at  all, 
same  as  we  hed  on.  It  was  more  like  we  was  wearin' 
meat  an'  vegetable  dresses,  an'  this  dress  was  des- 
sert—  all  whipped  cream  an'  pink  sugar  an'  a  flower 
on  the  plate. 


EVENING   DRESS  555 

" c  Dear  land  ! '  says  Mis'  Toplady,  lookin'  'round 
at  us  strange,  c  do  they  do  it  when  they  get  gray 
hair  ?  I  didn't  know  they  done  it  when  their  hair 
was  gray/ 

"  We  all  looked,  an'  sure  enough,  the  woman's 
hair  was  white.  'Afternoon  Toilette  for  Elderly 
Woman,'  it  said  underneath,  plain  as  plain.  Always 
before  the  plates  hed  all  been  young  an'  smilin'  an' 
party-seemin',  an'  we'd  thought  of  all  that  as  past 
an'  done  for,  with  us,  along  with  all  the  other  things 
that  didn't  come  true.  But  here  was  a  woman 
grayer  than  any  of  us,  an'  yet  lookin'  as  live  as 
if  she'd  been  wearin'  a  housework  dress. 

"'Why,'  says  Mis'  Sykes,  starin', c  that  must  be 
a  new  thing  this  season.  I  never  heard  of  a  woman 
well  along  in  years  wearin'  anything  but  brown  or 
navy  blue  or  gray,  —  besides  black.'  Mis'  Sykes 
is  terribly  dressy,  but  even  she  never  yet  got  any- 
wheres inside  the  rainbow,  except  in  a  bow  at  the 
chin. 

"cMy,'  says  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss, 
wistful,  c  wouldn't  it  seem  like  heaven  to  be  able  to 
wear  colours  without  bein'  talked  about?' 

"An'  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  —  her  that  her  hus- 
band grew  well  off  bein'  mayor,  an'  never'd  been 
back  to  Friendship  Village  since  he  was  put  out  of 
office,  she  says  low  :  — 

" c  You  ladies  that  has  husbands  to  keep  thinkin' 


156        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

well  of  you,  I  should  think  you'd  think  about  this 
thing.  Men/  she  says,  ( loves  the  light  shades/ 

"  At  that  Mis'  Toplady  turned  around  on  us,  an' 
we  see  her  eyes  expressin'  i-dees. 

" c  Ladies,'  says  she,  impressive,  c  Mis'  Uppers 
is  right.  We  hadn't  ought  to  talk  back  or  show 
mad.  We  ladies  of  the  Sodality  had  ought  to  be 
able  to  get  our  own  way  peaceable,  just  by  takin'  it, 
the  way  the  Lord  give  women  the  weapons  to  do.' 

"  We  see  that  somethin'  was  seethin'  in  her  mind, 
but  we  couldn't  work  our  way  to  what  it  was. 

" ( Ladies,'  says  she,  an'  stepped  up  on  the 
wooden  step  to  Lyddy's  dressmakin'  shop,  c  has  the 
husbands  of  any  one  of  us  seen  us,  for  twenty  years, 
dressed  in  the  light  shades  ? ' 

"  I  didn't  hev  any  husband  to  answer  for,  but  I 
could  truthfully  say  of  the  rest  that  you'd  think 
black  an'  brown  an'  gray  an'  navy  had  exhausted  the 
Lord's  ingenuity,  for  all  the  attention  they'd  paid  to 
any  other  colour  He'd  wove  with. 

" c  Let's  the  Sodality  get  up  an  evenin'  party,  an1 
hev  it  in  post-office  hall,  an'  invite  our  husbands 
an'  buy  new  dresses  —  light  shades  an'  some  lace,' 
says  Mis'  Toplady,  lettin'  the  i-dee  drag  her  along, 
main  strength. 

"  Mis'  Sykes  was  studyin'  the  fashion-plate 
hungry,  but  she  stopped  an'  stepped  up  side  o'  Mis' 
Toplady. 


EVENING   DRESS  157 

"  <  Well,  sir,'  she  said,  '  I  donno  but  'twould  help 
us  to  work  the  pavin'  of  Daphne  Street.  Why, 
Silas  Sykes,  for  one,  is  right  down  soft-hearted  about 
clothes.  He  always  notices  which  one  of  their 
waists  the  choir's  got  on.  I  heard  him  say  once  he 
wasn't  goin'  to  church  again  till  they  bought  some- 
thin'  new.' 

"  Mis'  Holcomb  nodded.  c  Five  years  ago,'  she 
said,  c  I  went  up  to  the  city  with  Eppleby.  An'  I 
saw  him  turn  around  to  look  after  a  woman.  I'll 
never  forget  the  sensation  it  give  me  —  like  I  was 
married  to  a  man  that  wasn't  my  husband.  The 
woman  had  on  a  light  pink  dress.  I  know  I  come 
home  an'  bought  a  pink  collar  ;  I  didn't  think  I 
could  go  any  farther,  because  she  was  quite  young. 
Do  you  s'pose  .  .  .' 

"  Mis'  Toplady  pointed  at  Lyddy's  fashion-plate. 
'  I  should  go,'  she  says,  'just  as  far  as  my  money 
would  let  me  go.' 

"  Mis'  Uppers  stood  lookin'  down  to  the  walk. 
c  The  mayor,'  she  says  —  she  calls  him  ( the  mayor  ' 
yet  —  cwas  terrible  fond  o'  coloured  neckties.  He 
was  rill  partial  to  green  ones.  Mebbe  I  didn't 
think  enough  about  what  that  meant  .  .  .' 

"  Mis'  Toplady  came  down  off  the  step.  <  Every 
man  is  alike,'  says  she,  decided.  c  Most  of  us  Friend- 
ship ladies  thinks  if  we  give  'em  a  clean  roller  towel 
we've  done  enough  towards  makin'  things  pretty ; 


158        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

an'  I  think  it's  time,  as  wives,  we  took  advantage  of 
the  styles/ 

"'An','  says  Mis'  Sykes,  the  president,  rill 
dreamy  for  her,  but  firm,  c  I  think  so,  too.' 

"  I  tell  you,  we  all  walked  home  feelin'  like  we'd 
hed  a  present  —  me  too,  though  I  knew  very  well  I 
couldn't  hev  a  light  dress,  an'  I  didn't  hev  any  hus- 
band. You  start  out  thinkin'  them  are  the  two 
principal  things,  but  you  get  a-hold  o'  some  others, 
if  you  pay  attention.  Still,  I  judged  the  ladies  was 
on  the  right  track,  for  men  is  men,  say  what  who 
will.  All  but  Threat  Hubbelthwait.  We  passed 
the  hotel  an'  heard  him  settin'  in  there  by  the  bar 
scrapin'  away  on  '  Can  A  Little  Child  Like  Me  ? ' 
We  took  shame  to  him,  an'  yet  I  know  we  all 
looked  at  each  other  sort  of  motherly,  like  he  was 
some  little  shaver,  same  as  he  sung,  an'  performin' 
most  fool. 

"  It  don't  take  us  ladies  long  to  do  things,  when 
our  minds  is  made.  Especially  it  don't  when 
Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  is  chairman  of  the  Enter- 
tainment Committee,  or  the  Doin'  Committee  of 
whatever  happens,  like  she  was  that  time.  First, 
we  found  out  they  was  plenty  enough  nun's  veilin' 
in  the  post-office  store,  cheap  an'  wide  an'  in  stock 
an'  all  the  light  shades  ;  an'  I  bought  all  the  dresses, 
noons,  of  the  clerk,  so  Silas  wouldn't  suspect — 
me  not  hevin'  any  husband  to  inquire  around, 


EVENING   DRESS  159 

like  they  do.  Then  we  hired  the  post-office 
hall,  vague,  without  sayin'  for  what — an'  that 
pleased  Silas  that  gets  the  rent.  An'  then  we  give 
the  invitations,  spectacular,  through  the  Friendship 
Daily  to  the  Sodality's  husbands,  for  the  next  Tues- 
day night.  We  could  do  it  that  quick,  not  bein' 
dependent  on  dressmakers  same  as  some.  The 
ladies  was  all  goin'  to  make  their  dresses  themselves, 
an'  the  dresses  wa'n't  much  to  do  to  make.  No- 
body bothered  a  very  great  deal  about  how  we 
should  make  'em,  the  principal  thing  bein'  the  colour; 
Mis'  Toplady's  was  blue,  like  the  fashion-plate ; 
Mis'  Holcomb's  pink,  like  the  woman  in  the  city  ; 
Mis'  Uppers'  green,  like  the  mayor's  necktie,  an'  so 
on.  I  made  me  up  a  dress  out  o'  the  spare-room 
curtains  —  white,  with  a  little  blue  flower  in  it,  an'  a 
new  blue  ribbon  belt.  But  Mis'  Sykes,  she  went 
to  work  an'  rented  a  dress  from  the  city,  for  that  one 
night.  That  much  she  give  out  about  it,  an'  would 
give  out  no  more.  That  woman  loves  a  surprise. 
She's  got  a  rill  pleasant  mind,  Mis'  Sykes  has,  but 
one  that  does  enjoy  jerkin'  other  people's  minds 
up,  an  most  anything'll  do  for  the  string. 

"  For  all  we  thought  we  hed  so  much  time,  an'  it 
was  so  easy  to  do,  the  afternoon  o'  the  party  we  went 
'most  crazy.  We'd  got  up  quite  a  nice  little  cold 
supper — Mis'  Hubbelthwait  had  helped  us,  she 
bein'  still  at  large,  an'  Threat  fiddlin'.  We  planned 


160       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

meat  loaf  an*  salad  an*  pickles  an'  jelly,  an*  scalloped 
potatoes  for  the  hot  dish,  an*  ice  cream  an*  cake, 
enough  in  all  for  thirty  folks :  fifteen  husbands  an* 
fifteen  Sodality,  or  approximatish.  An*  we  planned 
to  go  to  the  hall  in  the  afternoon  an*  take  our  dresses 
there,  an*  sly  em*  up  and  leave  *em,  an*  put  *em  on 
after  we'd  got  there  that  night,  so*s  nobody*s  hus- 
bands should  suspect.  But  when  we  all  came  in  the 
afternoon,  an*  the  decoratin*  with  greens  an*  festoons 
of  cut  paper  an*  all  was  to  do,  there  Mis*  Toplady, 
that  was  to  make  scalloped  potatoes,  hadn*t  got  her 
sleeves  in  yet,  an*  she  was  down  to  the  hall  tryin*  to 
do  both ;  an*  Mis*  Holcomb,  that  was  to  make  the 
salad  dressing,  had  got  so  nervous  over  her  collar 
that  she  couldn't  tell  which  edge  she*d  cut  for  the 
top.  But  the  rest  of  us  was  ready,  an*  Mis'  Sykes's 
dress  had  come  from  the  city,  an*  we  all,  Mis'  Top- 
lady  an'  Mame  too,  hed  our  dresses  in  boxes  in  the 
post-office  hall  kitchen  cupboards.  An'  we  done 
the  decoratin',  an*  it  looked  rill  lovely,  with  the  long 
tables  laid  ready  at  each  side,  an*  room  for  bein*  a 
party  left  in  between  'em. 

"  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mis'  Holcomb 
left  the  hall  about  five  o'clock  to  go  home  an*  lay 
out  Silas's  an'  Timothy's  an'  Eppleby's  best  clothes 
for  'em  —  the  rest  hed  done  it  at  noon.  Mis'  Hub- 
belthwait  was  goin'  over  to  the  hotel  to  get  some 
dishes  out,  an'  I  went  with  her  to  help.  The  bar 


EVENING   DRESS  161 

was  to  the  back,  where  Threat  set  an'  slep'  an'  fiddled, 
an'  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  was  goin'  to  slip  in  still  an* 
sly  the  dishes  out  to  me.  A  good  many  of  the 
hotel  dishes  was  her  individual  weddin'  presents,  so 
she  didn't  think  wrong  of  her  conscience. 

* "  We  was  all  five  hurryin'  along  together,  rehearsin' 
all  we'd  got  to  do  before  six-thirty,  when  we  heard 
a  funny  sound.  We  listened,  an'  we  thought  they 
must  be  testin'  the  hose.  But  when  we  got  to 
Lyddy's  shop,  where  the  street  kitters  off  some  in 
a  curve,  we  looked  ahead  an'  we  see  it  wasn't  that. 

"  It's  an  automobile,"  says  Mis'  Toplady.  c  My 
land,'  she  says,  c  it  ain't  only  one.  It's  two.' 

"  An'  we  see  it  was.  There  come  the  two  of  'em, 
ploughin'  along  through  the  awful  sand  of  Daphne 
Street,  that  was  fit  for  no  human  locomotive,  unless 
ostriches.  When  the  Proudfits  are  here,  that's  the 
only  one  in  the  village  with  an  automobile,  they 
understand  the  sand,  and  they'd  put  on  the  whole 
steam  and  tear  right  along  through  it.  But  strangers 
would  go  careful,  for  fear  they'd  get  stuck,  an'  so 
they  got  it,  like  you  do.  An'  them  two  big  red  cars 
was  comin*  slow,  the  dust  like  cloaks  an'  curtains 
billowin'  up  behind.  They  looked  quite  wild,  in- 
cludin'  the  seven  folks  in  each  one  that  was  laughin' 
an*  callin'  out.  An'  by  the  time  they'd  come  up  to 
us,  us  four  ladies  of  the  Sodality  an'  Mis'  Hubbel- 
thwait was  lined  up  on  the  walk  watchin'  'em.  They 


162        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

stopped  an'  one  of  'em  hailed  us,  leanin'  past  his 
driver. 

"  c  I  beg  your  pardon/  he  says,  c  is  this  the  street 
to  the  best  hotel?' 

"  It  was  Mis'  Toplady  that  answered  him,  rill  col- 
lected. c  They's  only  one  street  in  town,'  says  she, 
£  an'  they's  only  one  hotel,  an'  that  they  ain't  now.' 

" c  Can  you  tell  me  how  soon  there  will  be  one  ? ' 
says  the  man.  c  By  dinner-time,  I  hope.' 

"  We  all  felt  kind  of  delicate  about  answerin'  this, 
an'  so  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  herself  spoke  up. 
c  Threat's  drunk  an'  fiddlin',  she  says.  c  They's  no 
tellin'  when  Friendship  Village  will  ever  hev  a  hotel 
again.' 

"  Both  automobiles  was  listenin'  by  then,  an' 
though  some  of  'em  laughed  out  sort  o'  rueful,  not 
many  of  'em  see  the  funny. 

" c  Gad,'  one  of  the  men  says,  c  how  about  the 
bird  an'  the  bottle  we  were  to  send  back  to  Bonner, 
sittin'  by  his  tire  in  the  desert,  a  ways  back  ?  Don't 
tell  us  there's  no  place,'  he  says,  £  where  we  can  find 
dinner,  twenty-one  of  us  and  the  three  chauf —  * 
that  word. 

"  Mis'  Toplady  shook  her  head.  c  They  ain't  a 
place  big  enough  to  seat  twenty-one,  even  if  they 
was  the  food  to  feed  'em  — '  she  begun,  an'  then  she 
stopped  an'  looked  'round  at  us,  as  though  she  was 
thinkin'  somethin'. 


EVENING   DRESS  163 

"  c  Oh,  come  now/  says  the  man, — he  was  good- 
lookin'  an'  young,  an*  merry-seemin',  — c  Oh,  come 
now/  he  said,  f  I  am  sure  that  the  ladies  of  Friend- 
ship could  cook  things  such  as  -never  man  yet  ate. 
We  are  sta-arving/  he  says,  humorous.  c  Can't  you 
do  something  for  us  ?  We'll  give  you/  he  winds  up, 
genial, c  two  dollars  a  plate  for  a  good,  home-cooking 
dinner  for  the  twenty-four  of  us.  What  do  you 
say  ?' 

"  Mis'  Toplady  whirled  toward  us  sort  o'  wild. 
f  Is  two  dollars  times  twenty-four,  forty-eight 
dollars  ? '  says  she,  low. 

"  An'  we  see  it  was,  though  Mis'  Holcomb  was 
still  figurin'  it  out  in  the  palm  of  her  other  hand, 
while  we  stood  gettin'  glances  out  of  each  other's 
eyes,  an'  sendin'  'em,  give  for  take.  We  see,  quick 
as  a  flash,  what  Mis'  Toplady  was  thinkin'  about. 
An'  it  was  about  that  hall,  all  festooned  with  greens 
an'  cut  paper,  an'  the  two  long  tables  laid  ready,  an' 
the  veal  loaf  an'  scalloped  potatoes  an'  ice-cream  for 
thirty.  An'  when  Mis'  Sykes,  that  usually  speaks, 
stood  still,  an'  didn't  say  one  word,  but  just  nodded 
a  little  bit,  sort  o'  sad,  Mis'  Toplady,  that  was  chair- 
man o'  the  Entertainment  Committee,  done  like  she 
does  sometimes  —  she  took  the  whole  thing  into  her 
own  hands  an'  just  settled  it. 

"  c  Why,  yes/  she  says  to  'em,  rill  pleasant,  c  if 
you  want  to  come  up  to  post-office  hall  at  half-past 


1 64       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

six,'  she  says,  cthe  Friendship  Married  Ladies' 
Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality  will  serve  you  your 
supper,  nice  as  the  nicest,  for  two  dollars  a  head/ 

"  '  Good !  '  the  men  all  sings  out,  an*  the  women 
spats  their  hands  soft,  an'  one  of  'em  says  somethin' 
to  the  merry-seemin'  man. 

" '  Oh,  yes,'  he  says  then,  c  couldn't  we  all  break 
into  this  hotel  an'  floss  up  a  bit  before  dinner  ? ' 

"  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  stepped  out  towards  'em. 

"  c  I  was  thinkin'  of  that,'  says  she.  c  My  hus- 
band,' she  says,  dignified,  c  is  settin'  in  the  bar  — 
practisin'  his  violin.  He  —  he  does  that  sometimes, 
an'  we  —  don't  bother  him.  But  the  bar  is  at  the 
back.  I  can  let  you  in,  still,  the  front  way  to  the 
rooms,  if  you  want.  An'  I'll  be  there  myself  to 
wait  on  you.' 

"  An'  that  was  what  they  done,  somebody  takin' 
one  o'  the  cars  back  for  the  other  car,  an'  the  rest  of 
us  fair  breakin'  into  a  run  toward  post-office  hall. 

"  c  My  land,'  says  Mis'  Toplady,  almost  like  a 
groan,  c  what  hev  we  done  ? ' 

"  It  was  a  funny  thing  to  do,  we  see  it  afterward. 
But  I  tell  you,  you  can't  appreciate  the  influence  o' 
that  forty-eight  dollars  unless  you've  tried  to  earn 
money  in  a  town  the  size  o'  Friendship  Village. 
Sodality  hardly  ever  made  more  than  five  dollars 
to  its  ten-cent  entertainments  —  an'  that  for  a  big 
turn-out  on  a  dry  night.  An*  here  was  the  price 


EVENING   DRESS  165 

of  about  nine  such  entertainments  give  us  outright, 
an'  no  extra  work,  an*  rill  feet-achin'  weather.  I 
say  it  was  more  than  flesh  an'  blood  or  wives  could 
stand.  We  done  it  automatic,  like  you  contradict 
when  it's  necessary. 

"  But  there  was  the  men  to  reckon  with. 

"'What'll  Timothy  — an'  Silas  — an'  Eppleby 
.  .  .'  Mis'  Toplady  says,  an'  stops,  some  bothered 
an*  some  rill  pained. 

"I  judged,  not  havin'  any  husband  to  be  doin' 
the  inquirin',  it  wasn't  polite  for  me  to  laugh.  But 
I  couldn't  hardly  help  it,  thinkin'  o'  them  fifteen 
hungry  men  an'  the  supper  et  away  from  'em,  just 
William  Nilly. 

"  Mis'  Sykes,  we  remembered  afterwards,  never 
said  a  word,  but  only  kep'  up  with  us  back  to  the 
hall. 

"  Back  to  the  hall,  where  the  rest  o'  the  Sodality 
was,  we  told  'em  what  we'd  done  —  beginnin'  with 
the  forty-eight  dollars,  like  some  kind  o'  weapon. 
But  I  tell  you,  we  hadn't  reckoned  without  knowin' 
our  hostesses,  head  an'  heart.  An'  they  went  in 
pell  mell,  pleased  an'  glad  as  we  was,  an'  plannin' 
like  mad. 

"  The  first  need  was  more  food  to  make  up  that 
supper  to  somewheres  near  two  dollars'  worth  — 
feedin'  your  husband  is  one  thing  an'  gettin'  up  a 
two-dollar  meal  is  another.  But  we  collected  that 


166        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

all  in  pretty  sudden  :  leg  o'  lamb,  left  from  the 
Holcombs'  dinner  an'  only  cut  off  of  one  side;  the 
Sykes's  roast  o'  veal,  the  same  ;  three  chickens  for 
soup  the  Libertys  hed  just  dressed  for  next  day 
company  dinner  ;  big  platter  of  devilled  eggs  chipped 
in  from  Mis'  Toplady ;  a  jar  o'  doughnuts,  a 
steamer  o'  cookies,  a  fruit-cake  a  year  old  —  we 
just  made  out  our  list  an'  scattered  to  empty  out  all 
our  pantries. 

cc  By  six  o'clock  we  was  back  in  the  hall,  an'  all  the 
food  with  us.  But  nobody  hed  met  nobody's  hus- 
band yet,  an'  nobody  wanted  to.  We  didn't  quite 
know  how  we  was  goin'  to  do,  I  guess  —  but  done 
is  done,  an'  to  do  takes  care  of  itself. 

"  c  Hadn't  we  ought  to  'a'  sent  word  to  the  men  ? ' 
says  Mis'  Holcomb,  for  the  third  or  fourth  time. 
CI  sneaked  around  so's  not  to  pass  Eppleby's  office, 
but  I  declare  I  feel  mean.  He'll  hev  to  eat  sauce 
an'  plain  bread-an'-butter  for  his  supper.  An'  most 
o'  the  men-folks  the  same.  'Seems  though  some- 
body'd  ought  to  send  'em  word  an'  not  let  'em 
come  up  here,  all  washed  an'  dressed.' 

" c  Well,'  says  Mis'  Toplady,  cuttin'  cake  with 
her  lips  shut  tight  an'  talkin'  anyway,  c  I  kind  o' 
thought  —  leave  'em  come  up.  I  bet  they'd  rather 
be  in  it  than  out  of  it,  every  one  of  'em,  an'  who 
knows  they  might  be  some  supper  left  ?  An'  we 
can  all  — ' 


EVENING   DRESS  167 

"An*  at  that  Mis'  Toplady  faces  round  from 
cuttin'  the  cake  :  c  My  land,  my  land/  she  says, 
sort  o'  hushed,  c  why,  doin'  this,  we  can't  none  of  us 
wear  our  new  dresses  ! ' 

"  An'  at  that  we  looked  at  each  other,  each  one 
sort  of  accusin',  an'  I  guess  all  our  hearts  givin' 
one  o'  them  sickish  thumps.  An'  Mis'  Sykes,  her 
that  hed  been  so  still,  snaps  back :  — 

" c  I  wondered  what  you  thought  I'd  rented  my 
dress  from  the  city  for  at  Three  Dollars  a  night! 

"  I  tell  you,  that  made  a  hush  in  the  middle  of  the 
plannin'.  We'd  forgot  all  about  our  own  dresses, 
an'  that  was  bad  enough,  with  the  hall  all  hired  an' 
everything  all  ready,  an'  every  chance  in  the  world 
of  everybody's  husband's  findin'  out  about  the  dresses 
before  we  could  get  up  another  Sodality  party,  same 
way.  But  here  was  Mis'  Sykes,  three  dollars  out, 
an  mebbe  wouldn't  be  able  to  rent  her  dress  again 
at  all. 

" c  I  did  want  Silas,'  Mis'  Sykes  says  then,  wist- 
ful, c  to  see  me  in  that  dress.  Silas  an'  I  have  been 
married  so  long,'  she  says,  c  that  I  often  wonder  if 
I  seem  like  a  person  to  him  at  all.  But  in  that 
dress  from  the  city,  I  think  I  would.' 

"  We  was  each  an'  all  ready  to  cry,  an'  I  dunno 
but  we  would  hev  done  it  —  though  we  was  all 
ready  to  serve,  too  :  coffee  made,  potatoes  pipin' 
hot,  veal  an'  lamb  het  up  an'  smellin'  rich,  chicken 


1 68        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

soup  steamin',  an'  all.  But  just  that  very  minute 
we  heard  some  of  'em  comin'  in  the  hall  —  an'  the 
one  c  ready  '  conquered  the  other  c  ready/  like  it 
will,  an'  we  all  made  a  rush,  part  curious  an'  part 
nerves,  to  peek  through  the  little  servin'  window 
from  the  kitchen. 

"  What  do  you  think  we  saw  ?  It  was  the  auto- 
mobile folks,  hungry  an'  got  there  first.  In  they'd 
come,  women  laughin',  men  jokin',  all  makin'  a 
lark  out  o'  the  whole  thing.  An'  if  the  women 
wasn't,  every  last  one  of  'em,  wearin'  —  not  the 
clothes  they  hed  come  in,  but  light  pink  an'  light 
blue  an'  white  an'  flowered  things,  an'  all  like 
that. 

"  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  burst  in  on  us  while  we  was 
lookin'.  'They  hed  things  in  their  trunk  at  the 
back  o'  the  automobile,'  says  she.  ( They  says 
they  wanted  to  floss  up  for  dinner,  an'  floss  up 
they  hev.  They  look  like  Lyddy's  fashion  sheets, 
one  an'  all.' 

"  At  that  Mis'  Sykes,  a-ceasin'  to  peek,  she  drops 
her  tray  on  the  bare  floor  an'  begun  untyin'  her 
apron.  c  Quick  ! '  she  raps  out,  c  Mis'  Hubbel- 
thwait, you  go  an'  set  'em  down.  An'  every  one  o' 
you  —  into  them  togs  of  ours!  Here's  the  chance 
to  wear  'em  —  here  an'  now,'  she  says,  c  an'  leave 
them  folks  see  we  know  how  to  do  things  here  in 
Friendship  Village  as  good  as  the  best.' 


EVENING   DRESS  169 

"Well,  bein'  as  she  had  rented  the  dress,  an* 
three  dollars  hed  to  be  paid  out  anyhow,  an*  bein' 
as  she  was  president,  an'  bein'  as  we  was  all  hank- 
erin'  in  our  hearts,  we  didn't  need  much  urgin'. 
We  slammed  the  servin'  window  shut  an'  set  chairs 
against  both  doors,  an1  we  whisked  out  of  our  regular 
dresses  like  wild. 

"  '  Oh,  land  —  my  land,  the  sleeves  —  the  sleeves 
ain't  in  mine !  '  says  Mis'  Toplady,  sort  o'  glazed, 
an'  speakin'  in  a  wail.  But  we  encouraged  her  up 
to  pin  'em  in,  which  she  done,  an'  it  couldn't  be  told 
from  stitches.  Poor  Mame  Holcomb's  collar  that 
wasn't  on  yet  we  turned  in  for  her  V-shape,  so's  her 
dress  was  low,  like  the  best.  An'  Mis'  Uppers, 
that  was  seasonin'  the  chicken  soup  like  none  of  us 
could,  her  we  took  turns  in  dressin'  in  her  green. 
An'  I'd  got  into  my  spare-room  curtains,  somehow, 
just  as  Mis'  Hubbelthwait  come  shoving  at  that 
door. 

" '  The  men  —  the  men  !  '  says  she,  painful. 
'  They're  all  out  here  —  Silas  an'  Timothy  an' 
Eppleby  an'  all.  They've  all  heard  about  it  —  the 
automobiles  went  to  the  post-office  for  their  mail, 
an'  Silas  told  'em  enjoyable  about  Threat,  an'  the 
automobiles  told  him  where  they  was  goin'  to  eat. 
An'  they've  come,  thinkin'  they's  enough  for  all, 
an'  they're  out  here  now.' 

"  Mis'   Toplady  groaned  a  little,   agonized  an* 


iyo        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

stifled,  but  rill  firm.  cTell  'em,  then/  says  she,  cto 
come  back  up  here,  like  men,  an*  help' 

"  Then  we  heard  a  little  rustle,  soft  an'  silky  an' 
kind  o'  pink-soundin',  an'  we  looked  around,  an' 
there,  from  where  she  had  been  dressin'  herself  over 
behind  the  kitchen  boiler  all  alone,  Mis'  Postmaster 
Sykes  stepped  out.  My  land,  if  she  wasn't  in  a 
white  dress,  a  little  low  in  the  neck,  an'  elbow  sleeves, 
an'  all  covered  solid  as  crust  with  glitterin'  silver 
spangles. 

"  c  Let's  tell  'em  ourselves,'  she  says, c  come  on  — 
all  of  you.  Let's  take  out  the  first  course,  an'  tell 
the  men  what  we  want  'em  to  do.' 

"  We  made  Mis'  Sykes  go  first,  carry  in'  high  the 
tureen  of  chicken  soup.  An'  on  one  side  of  her 
walked  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady,  in  blue,  with  the 
wafers,  an'  on  the  other  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was- 
Mame-Bliss,  in  pink,  with  the  radishes.  An'  neither 
one  of  'em  could  hardly  help  lookin'  at  Mis'  Sykes's 
dress  all  the  way  out.  An'  back  of  'em  went  the 
rest  o'  the  ladies,  all  in  pink  an'  blue  an'  white  an' 
pale  green  nun's  veilin'  that  they'd  made,  an'  car- 
ryin'  the  water-pitchers  an'  ice  an'  celery  an'  like 
that.  An'  me,  I  hung  back  in  the  kitchen  watchin' 
an'  lovin'  'em  every  one  —  an'  almost  lovin'  Timothy 
Toplady  an'  Silas  Sykes  an'  Eppleby  when  they 
looked  on  an'  saw. 

"  Mis'  Sykes  set  the  soup  down  in  front  o'  the 


EVENING   DRESS  171 

merry-seemin'  man  for  him  to  serve  it.  An'  then 
she  crossed  over  an*  spoke  to  Silas,  an*  swep'  up 
ahead  of  him  in  that  spangly  dress,  the  other  ladies 
followin'  an'  noddin'  bright  when  they  passed  the 
men,  an'  motionin'  'em  toward  the  back  o'  the  hall. 
An'  back  the  men  all  come  into  the  kitchen,  followin' 
as  they  was  asked  to  do,  an'  orderly  through  bein* 
dazed.  Silas  an'  Timothy  an'  Eppleby  was  first,  an' 
Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mame  went  up  to 
'em  together. 

cc  I'll  never  forget  that  minute.  I  thought  the 
men  was  goin'  to  burst  out  characteristic  an'  the 
whole  time  be  tart,  an'  I  shut  both  doors  an'  the 
servin'  window  careful.  An'  instead  o'  that,  them 
three  men  stood  there  just  smilin'  a  little  an  lookin' 
surprised  an'  agreeable ;  an'  the  other  husbands, 
either  takin'  the  cue  or  feelin'  the  same,  done  like- 
wise, too.  An'  when  Mame  Bliss  says,  sort  o' 
tremblin'  —  Eppleby  bein'  the  gentlest  husband 
in  Friendship  Village,  an'  known  to  be :  c  How  do 
you  like  us,  Eppleby  ? '  Eppleby  just  nods  an' 
wrinkles  up  his  eyes  an'  smiles  at  her,  like  he  meant 
lots  more.  An'  he  says,  c  Why  didn't  you  never 
wear  that  dress  before,  Mame  ? ' 

"An'  cWell,  Timothy?'  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
sort  o'  masterful,  an'  fully  expectin'  to  hev  to  master. 
But  Timothy  Toplady,  he  just  rubs  his  hands  an' 
looks  at  her  sort  o'  wonderin',  an'  he  says,  '  Blisterin' 


172        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Benson,  you  look  as  good  as  the  city  folks,  Amandy 
—  all  light,  an*  loose  made,  an*  stylish  — ' 

"  But  Silas  Sykes,  he  just  stood  lookin'  at  his 
wife  an'  lookin'.  Of  course  she  did  hev  the  advan- 
tage, bein'  her  spangles  shone  so.  An'  Silas  looked 
at  her  an'  looked,  just  as  if  her  bein'  his  wife  didn't 
make  him  admire  her  any  the  less.  An'  Mis'  Sykes, 
she  was  rill  pink  an'  pleased  an'  breathless,  an'  I  guess 
she  could  see  she  seemed  like  a  person  to  Silas,  the 
way  she'd  wanted  to. 

"  It  all  went  off  splendid.  The  men  stayed  an' 
dished  in  the  kitchen  an'  helped  carry  away  from  the 
tables  —  the  forty-eight  dollars  completin'  their 
respect  — an'  we  ladies  done  the  servin'.  An'  I  tell 
you,  we  served  'em  with  an  air,  'count  o'  bein'  well 
dressed,  like  they  was,  an'  knowin'  it.  An'  we  knew 
the  automobile  folks  appreciated  it  —  we  could  tell 
by  the  way  they  kep'  lookin'  at  us.  But  of  course 
we  all  understood  Mis'  Sykes  looked  the  best,  an' 
we  let  her  do  all  the  most  prominent  things  — 
bringin'  in  the  first  dish  of  everything  an'  like  that, 
so's  they  could  hev  a  good  look. 

"  When  it  was  over,  the  merry-seemin'  man 
stood  up  an'  made  a  little  speech  o'  thanks,  rill 
courteous  an'  sweet,  an'  like  he  knew  how  to  act. 
An'  when  he  was  through  we,  one  an'  all,  nudged 
Mis'  Sykes  to  reply,  an'  she  done  so,  the  two  tables 


EVENING   DRESS  173 

listening  an*  the  Sodality  standin'  in  between,  an*  the 
Sodality's  husbands  crowdin'  in  both  kitchen  doors 
to  listen. 

"  Mis'  Sykes  says,  rill  dignified,  an'  the  light 
catchin'  in  her  spangles :  c  We're  all  very  much 
obliged,  I'm  sure,  for  our  forty-eight  dollars  clear. 
An'  we  think  perhaps  you'd  like  to  know  what  the 
money  is  goin'  toward.  It's  goin','  she  says, e  towards 
the  pavin'  of  the  main  street  of  our  little  city.' 

"  Silas  Sykes  was  lookin'  out  the  servin'  window 
like  it  was  a  box.  '  What's  that  ?  '  says  he,  more  of 
him  comin'  out  of  the  window,  f  what's  that  you 
say?' 

"An'  they  was  a  little  wave  o'  moves  an'  mur- 
murs all  around  him  like  when  somethin'  is  goin'  to 
happen  an'  nobody  knows  what ;  an'  I  know  the 
Sodality  caught  its  breath,  for,  as  Mis'  Toplady 
always  says,  the  dear  land  knows  what  men  will  do. 

"  With  that  up  springs  the  merry-seemin'  man, 
his  face  all  beamin',  an*  he  says  loud  an'  clear  an' 
drowndin'  out  everything  else  :  '  Hear,  hear  !  Like- 
wise, here  an'  now.  I  move  that  we  as  one  man, 
an'  that  man's  automobile  having  lately  come  up 
the  main  street  of  Friendship  Village  —  do  ourself 
contribute  to  this  most  worthy  end.  Get  to  work,' 
says  he.  '  Think  civic  thoughts  ! ' 

"  He  slid  the  last  roll  off  its  plate,  an*  he  laid 
somethin'  in  paper  money  on  it,  an'  he  started  it 


174       FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

down  the  table.  An1  every  man  of  'em  done  as  he 
done.  An'  I  tell  you,  when  we  see  Mis'  Hubbel- 
thwait's  bread  plate  pilin'  with  bills,  an'  knew  what 
it  was  for,  we  couldn't  help  —  the  whole  Sodality 
couldn't  help  —  steppin'  forwards,  close  to  the  table, 
an'  standin'  there  an'  holdin'  our  breaths.  An'  the 
men,  back  there  in  the  kitchen,  they  hushed  up 
when  they  see  the  money,  an'  they  kep'  hushed. 
Land,  land,  it  was  a  great  minute  !  I  like  to  think 
about  it. 

"An'  when  the  plate  come  back  to  the  merry- 
seemin'  man,  he  took  it  an'  he  come  over  towards 
us  with  it  in  his  hand,  an'  we  nudged  Mis'  Sykes 
to  take  the  money.  An'  she  just  lifted  up  the  glit- 
ter part  of  her  skirt  an'  spread  it  out  an'  he  dropped 
the  whole  rustlin'  heap  on  to  the  spangles.  An'  the 
rest  of  us  all  clapped  our  hands,  hard  as  we  could, 
an'  right  while  we  was  doin'  it  we  heard  somethin' 
else  —  deeper  an'  more  manly  than  us.  An'  there 
was  the  men  streamin'  out  o'  the  kitchen  doors,  an' 
Silas  Sykes  high  in  the  servin'  window  —  an'  every 
one  of  'em  was  clappin',  too. 

"  I  tell  you,  we  was  glad  an'  grateful.  An'  we 
was  grateful,  too,  when  afterwards  they  was  plenty 
enough  supper  left  for  the  men-folks.  An'  when  we 
all  set  down  together  around  that  table,  Mis'  Sykes 
at  the  head  an'  the  plate  o'  bills  for  a  centrepiece, 
Mis'  Toplady  leaned  back,  hot  an'  tired,  an'  seein' 


EVENING   DRESS  175 

if  both  her  sleeves  was  still  pinned  in  place,  an*  she 
says  what  we  was  all  thinkin' :  — 

"  c  Oh,  ladies/  she  says,  *  we  can  pave  -streets  an* 
dress  in  the  light  shades  even  if  we  ain't  young,  like 
the  run  o'  the  fashion-plates.  Ain't  it  like  comin' 
to  life  again  ? '  she  says." 


XI 

UNDERN 

I  HAVE  a  guest  who  is  the  best  of  the  three  kinds 
of  welcome  guests.  Of  these  some  are  like  a  new 
rug  which,  however  fine  and  unobtrusive  it  be,  at 
first  changes  the  character  of  your  room  so  that 
when  you  enter  you  are  less  conscious  of  the  room 
than  of  the  rug.  Some  guests  are  like  flowers  on 
the  table,  leaving  the  room  as  it  was  save  for  their 
sweet,  novel  presence.  And  some  guests  are  like  a 
prized  new  book,  unread,  from  which  you  simply 
cannot  keep  away.  Of  these  last  is  my  guest  whom 
my  neighbour  calls  the  New  Lady. 

My  neighbour  and  Elfa  and  Miggy  and  Little 
Child  and  I  have  all  been  busy  preparing  for  her. 
Elfa  has  an  almost  pathetic  fondness  for  "  company," 
—  I  think  it  is  that  she  leads  such  a  lonely  life 
in  the  little  kitchen-prison  that  she  welcomes  even 
the  companionship  of  more-voices-in-the-next-room. 
I  have  tried  to  do  what  I  can  for  Elfa,  but  you 
never  help  people  very  much  when  you  only  try 
to  do  what  you  can.  It  must  lie  nearer  the  heart 
than  that.  And  I  perfectly  understand  that  the 

176 


UNDERN  177 

magazines  and  trifles  of  finery  which  I  give  to  her, 
and  the  flowers  I  set  on  the  kitchen  clock  shelf, 
and  the  talks  which,  since  my  neighbour's  uncon- 
scious rebuke,  I  have  contrived  with  her,  are  about 
as  eflFectual  as  any  merely  ameliorative  means  of 
dealing  with  a  social  malady.  For  Elfa  is  suffering 
from  a  distinct  form  of  the  social  malady,  and  not  be- 
ing able  to  fathom  it,  she  knows  merely  that  she  is 
lonely.  So  she  has  borrowed  fellowship  from  her 
anticipation  of  my  guest  and  of  those  who  next 
week  will  come  down  from  the  town  ;  and  I  know, 
though  she  does  not  know,  that  her  jars  of  fresh- 
fried  cakes  and  cookies,  her  fine  brown  bread  and 
her  bowl  of  salad-dressing,  are  her  utmost  expression 
of  longing  to  adjust  the  social  balance  and  give  to 
herself  companionship,  even  a  kind  of  household. 

Little  Child  to-day  came,  bringing  me  a  few  first 
sweet  peas  and  Bless-your-Heart,  Bless-your-Heart 
being  her  kitten,  and  as  nearly  pink  as  a  cat  can  be 
and  be  still  a  cat. 

"  To  lay  in  the  New  Lady's  room,"  she  remarked, 
bestowing  these  things  impartially  upon  me. 

Later,  my  neighbour  came  across  the  lawns  with 
a  plate  of  currant  tarts  and  a  quarter  of  a  jelly  cake. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  whether  you 
like  tarts  or  not.  They're  more  for  children,  I 
always  think.  I  always  bake  'em,  and  the  little 
round  child  fried  cakes,  too,  and  I  put  frosting  faces 


1 78        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

on  the  cookies,  and  such  things.  It  makes  my 
husband  and  I  seem  more  like  a  family,"  she  ex- 
plained, "and  that's  why  I  always  set  the  dining- 
room  table.  As  long  as  we  ain't  any  little  folks 
running  around,  I  always  tell  him  that  him  and  I 
would  be  eating  meat  and  potatoes  on  the  kitchen 
drop-leaf  like  savages  if  I  didn't  pretend  there  was 
more  of  us,  and  bake  up  for  'em." 

Miggy  alone  does  not  take  wholly  kindly  to 
the  New  Lady  idea,  though  I  assure  her  that  our 
mornings  are  to  remain  undisturbed. 

"  Of  course,"  she  observed,  while  in  the  New 
Lady's  honour  she  gathered  up  strewn  papers,  "  I 
know  I'll  like  her  because  she's  your  friend.  But 
I  don't  know  what  folks  want  to  visit  for.  Don't 
you  s'pose  that's  why  the  angels  don't  come  back — 
because  they  know  everything,  and  they  know  what 
a  lot  of  extra  work  they'd  make  us  ?  " 

In  Miggy  the  tribal  sense  seems  to  have  run 
itself  out.  Of  the  sanctity  of  the  individual  she 
discerns  much ;  but  of  the  wider  sanctities  she  has 
no  clear  knowledge.  Most  relationships  she  seems 
to  regard,  like  the  love  of  Peter,  as  "  drawbacks," 
save  only  her  indefinite  consciousness  of  that  one 
who  is  "  not  quite  her  sister  "  —  the  little  vague 
Margaret.  And  this,  I  think,  will  be  the  leaven. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  universal  leaven,  this  consciousness. 

I  was  glad  that  the  New  Lady  was  to  arrive  in 


UNDERN  179 

the  afternoon.  Sometimes  I  think  that  the  village 
afternoon  is  the  best  time  of  all.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  they  used  to  call  that  time  "  undern."  If  they 
had  not  done  so,  the  word  must  have  grown  of  its 
own  will  —  perhaps  it  did  come  to  life  with  no  past, 
an  immaculate  thing,  so  like  its  meaning  that  it 
could  not  help  being  here  among  us.  I  know  very 
well  that  Sir  John  Mandeville  and  others  used 
"  undern  "  to  mean  the  third  hour,  or  about  nine  in 
the  morning,  but  that  may  have  been  because  at  first 
not  every  one  recognized  the  word.  Many  a  fairy 
thing  wanders  for  a  long  time  on  earth,  patiently 
putting  up  with  other  connotations  than  its  own. 
Opportunism,  the  subconscious  mind,  personality, 
evolution  itself,  —  all  these  are  still  seeking  their  full 
incarnations  in  idea.  No  wonder  "  undern "  was 
forced  for  a  long  while  to  mean  morning.  But  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning !  How,  after  all,  was  that 
possible  ?  You  have  only  to  say  it  over  —  undern, 
undern,  undern,  —  to  be  heavenly  drowsy  with  sum- 
mer afternoon.  The  north  of  England  recognized 
this  at  last  and  put  the  word  where  it  belongs;  and  I 
have,  too,  the  authority  of  the  lady  of  Golden  Wing:  — 

"  Undern  cometh  after  noon, 
Golden  Wings  will  be  here  soon.   .   .   ." 

One  can  hardly  stop  saying  that,  once  one  is  started. 
I  should  like  to  go  on  with  it  all  down  the  page. 


i8o        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

I  was  thinking  of  these  things  as  I  drove  to  the 
station  alone  to  meet  the  New  Lady.  The  time 
had  taken  on  for  me  that  pleasant,  unlike-itself  as- 
pect which  time  bears  in  any  mild  excitement,  so 
that  if  in  the  moment  of  reading  a  particularly 
charming  letter  one  can  remember  to  glance  up  and 
look  the  room  in  the  face,  one  may  catch  its  other 
expression,  the  expression  which  it  has  when  one  is 
not  looking.  So  now  I  caught  this  look  in  the  village 
and  an  air  of  Something-different-is-going-to-hap- 
pen,  such  as  we  experience  on  holidays.  Next 
week,  when  the  New  Lady's  friends  come  down  to 
us  for  two  days,  I  dare  say,  if  I  can  remember  to 
look  for  it,  that  the  village  will  have  another  ex- 
pression still.  Yet  there  will  be  the  same  quiet 
undern  —  though  for  me  it  is  never  a  commonplace 
time.  Indeed,  usually  I  am  in  the  most  delighted 
embarrassment  how  to  spend  it.  In  the  mornings  now 
—  Miggy  being  willing  —  I  work,  morning  in  the  true 
democracy  being  the  work  time ;  afternoon  the  time 
for  recreation  and  the  more  specialized  forms  of 
service  and  a  little  rest ;  the  evening  for  delight,  in- 
cluding the  delight  of  others.  Not  every  one  in 
the  village  accepts  my  afternoon  and  evening  classi- 
fications. I  am  constantly  coming  on  people  mak- 
ing preserves  after  mid-day,  and  if  I  see  a  light  in  a 
kitchen  window  after  nine  at  night  I  know  that 
somebody  is  ironing  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  But 


UNDERN  181 

usually  my  division  of  time  is  the  general  division, 
save  that  —  as  in  the  true  democracy  —  service  is 
not  always  recognized  as  service.  Our  afternoons 
may  be  spent  in  cutting  carpet  rags,  or  in  hemming 
linen,  or  sewing  articles  for  an  imminent  bazaar,  and 
this  is  likely  to  be  denominated  "  gettin'  through 
little  odd  jobs,"  and  accounted  in  a  measure  a  self- 
indulgence.  And  if  evening  delight  takes  the  form 
of  gardening  and  later  a  flame  of  nasturtiums  or 
dahlias  is  carried  to  a  friend,  nobody  dreams  that 
this  is  not  a  pleasant  self-indulgence  too,  and  it  is  so 
regarded.  With  these  things  true  is  it  not  as  if  a 
certain  hope  abroad  in  the  world  gave  news  of  itself? 
Near  the  Pump  pasture  I  came  on  Nicholas 
Moor  —  who  rings  the  Catholic  bell  and  is  in- 
terested in  celluloid  —  and  who  my  neighbour  had 
told  me  would  doubtless  come  to  me,  bringing  his 
little  sheaf  of  cc  writin's."  I  had  not  yet  met  him, 
though  I  had  seen  in  the  daily  paper  a  vagrant 
poem  or  two  over  his  name  —  I  remember  a  help- 
less lyric  which  made  me  think  of  a  gorgeous  green 
and  gold  beetle  lying  on  its  back,  unable  to  recover 
its  legs,  but  for  all  that  flashing  certain  isolated  iri- 
descent colours.  My  heart  ached  for  Nicholas,  and 
when  I  saw  him  now  going  across  the  pasture  his 
loneliness  was  like  a  gap  in  things,  one  of  the  places 
where  two  world-edges  do  not  quite  meet.  There 
are  so  many  pleasant  ways  to  do  and  the  boy  seemed 


1 82        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

to  know  how  to  do  none  of  them.  How  can  he  be 
lonely  in  the  village  ?  For  myself,  if  I  decide  of 
an  afternoon  to  take  my  work  and  pay  a  visit,  I  am 
in  a  pleasant  quandary  as  to  which  way  to  turn.  If 
I  go  to  the  west  end  of  Daphne  Street,  there  are  at 
least  five  families  among  whom  to  choose,  the  other 
four  of  whom  will  wonder  why  I  did  not  come  to 
them.  Think  of  knowing  five  families  in  two  blocks 
who  would  welcome  one's  coming  and  even  feel  a 
little  flattering  bitterness  if  one  chose  the  other  four  ! 
If  I  take  a  cross  street,  I  am  in  the  same  difficulty. 
And  if  I  wish  to  go  to  the  house  of  one  of  my 
neighbours,  my  motives  clash  so  seriously  that  I 
often  sit  on  my  porch  and  call  to  whoever  chances 
to  be  in  sight  to  come  to  me.  Do  you  wonder  that, 
in  town,  the  moment  I  open  my  address  book  I  feel 
smothered?  I  recover  and  enjoy  town  as  much  as 
anybody,  but  sometimes  in  a  stuffy  coupe,  hurrying 
to  get  a  half-dozen  of  the  pleasantest  calls  "  done," 
I  surprise  a  companion  by  saying :  would  now  that 
it  were  undern  on  Daphne  Street ! 

I  told  this  to  the  New  Lady  as  we  drove  from 
the  station.  The  New  Lady  is  an  exquisite  little 
Someone,  so  little  that  it  is  as  if  she  had  been  drawn 
quickly,  in  a  single  delicate  curving  line,  and  then 
left,  lest  another  stroke  should  change  her.  She 
understands  the  things  that  I  say  in  the  way  that 
I  mean  them ;  she  is  the  way  that  you  always  think 


UNDERN  183 

the  people  whom  you  meet  are  going  to  be,  though 
they  so  seldom  are  ;  like  May,  she  is  expectation 
come  alive.  What  she  says  fits  in  all  the  crannies 
of  what  you  did  not  say  and  have  always  known,  or 
else  have  never  thought  of  before  and  now  never 
can  forget.  She  laughs  when  she  should  laugh, 
and  never,  never  when  somebody  else  should  laugh 
alone.  When  you  tell  her  that  you  have  walked 
eight  miles  and  back,  she  says  "And  back!  "  with  just 
the  proper  intonation  of  homage.  She  never  tells 
a  story  upon  the  heels  of  your  own  little  jest  so 
swiftly  that  it  cannot  triumphantly  escape.  When 
you  try  to  tell  her  something  that  you  have  not 
quite  worked  out,  she  nods  a  little  and  you  see  that 
she  meant  it  before  you  did.  She  enters  every  mo- 
ment by  its  gate  and  not  over  its  wall,  though  she 
frequently  wings  her  way  in  instead  of  walking. 
Also,  she  is  good  to  look  at  and  her  gowns  are  as 
meet  as  the  clouds  to  the  sky — and  no  less  distract- 
ing than  the  clouds  are  at  their  very  best.  There  is 
no  possible  excuse  for  my  saying  so  much  about  her, 
but  I  like  to  talk  of  her.  And  I  like  to  talk  to  her 
as  I  did  when  we  left  the  station  and  I  was  rambling 
on  about  undern. 

The  New  Lady  looked  about  with  a  breath  of 
content. 

"  No  wonder,"  she  said,  "  you  like  to  pretend 
Birthday,  in  New  York/' 


1 84       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

It  is  true  that  when  I  am  there  where,  next  to  the 
village,  I  like  best  to  live,  I  am  fond  of  this  pretence. 
It  is  like  the  children's  game  of  "  Choosing  "  before 
shop  windows,  only  it  is  extensive  and  not,  as  cream 
puffs  and  dolls  and  crumpets  in  the  windows  dictate 
to  the  children,  purely  intensive.  Seeing  this  man 
and  that  woman  in  the  subway  or  the  tea-room 
or  the  cafe  or  the  car,  I  find  myself  wondering  if  it 
is  by  any  chance  their  birthdays ;  and  if  it  is,  I  am 
always  wishing  to  deal  out  poor  little  gifts  at  which 
I  fancy  they  would  hardly  look.  To  the  lithe  idle 
blond  woman,  elbows  on  table ;  to  the  heavy-lidded, 
engagement-burdened  gentlewoman ;  to  the  busy, 
high-eyebrowed  man  in  a  cab ;  to  the  tired,  slow- 
winking  gentleman  in  his  motor;  to  the  thick- 
handed  labourer  hanging  to  his  strap,  I  find  myself 
longing  to  distribute  these  gifts  :  a  breakfast  on  our 
screened-in  porch  in  the  village,  with  morning-glories 
on  the  table;  a  full-throated  call  of  my  oriole — a 
June  call,  not  the  isolated  reminiscent  call  of  August ; 
an  hour  of  watering  the  lawn  while  robins  try  to 
bathe  in  the  spray  ;  a  morning  of  pouring  melted 
paraffin  on  the  crimson  tops  of  moulds  of  currant 
jelly  ;  a  yellow  afternoon  of  going  with  me  to  "  take 
my  work  and  stay  for  supper."  I  dare  say  that  none 
of  my  chosen  beneficiaries  would  accept ;  but  if  I 
could  pop  from  a  magic  purse  a  crop  of  caps  and 
fit  folk,  willy  nilly,  I  wonder  if  afterward,  even  if 


UNDERN  185 

they  remembered  nothing  of  what  had  occurred,  they 
might  not  find  life  a  little  different. 

"  If  it  was  my  birthday,"  said  the  New  Lady,  "  I 
would  choose  to  be  driven  straight  away  through 
that  meadow,  as  if  I  had  on  wings." 

That  is  the  way  she  is,  the  New  Lady.  Lacking 
wings  of  her  own  she  gives  them  to  many  a  situa- 
tion. Straightway  I  drove  down  into  the  Pump 
pasture  and  across  it,  springy  soil  and  circus-trodden 
turf  and  mullein  stalks  and  ten-inch  high  oak  trees. 

"  Let's  let  down  the  bars,"  said  the  New  Lady, 
"  and  drive  into  that  next  meadow.  If  it  is  a  sea, 
as  it  looks,  it  will  be  glad  of  your  company." 

It  was  not  a  sea,  for  as  we  drove  through  the 
lush  grass  the  yellow  and  purple  people  of  the 
meadow  came  marching  to  meet  us,  as  dignified  as 
garden  flowers,  save  that  you  knew,  all  the  time, 
that  wild  hearts  were  beating  beneath  the  rainbow 
tassels.  It  was  a  meadow  with  things  to  say,  but 
with  finger  on  lip  —  as  a  meadow  should  be  and  as 
a  spirit  must  be.  The  meadow  seemed  to  wish  to 
say :  "It  is  all  very  pleasant  for  you  there  in  the 
village  to  admire  one  another's  wings,  but  the  real 
romance  is  in  the  flight."  I  wondered  if  it  were 
not  so  that  it  had  happened  —  that  one  day  a  part 
of  the  village  had  got  tired  waiting,  and  had  broken 
off  and  become  something  free,  of  which  the  meadow 
was  the  body  and  its  secret  was  the  spirit.  But 


1 86        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

then  the  presence  of  the  New  Lady  always  sets  me 
wondering  things  like  this. 

"  Why,"  I  said  to  her  suddenly,  "spring  has  gone! 
I  wonder  how  that  happened.  I  have  been  waiting 
really  to  get  hold  of  spring,  and  here  it  is  June." 

"  June-and-a-half,"  assented  the  New  Lady,  and 
touched  the  lines  so  that  we  came  to  a  standstill  in 
the  shade  of  a  cottonwood. 

"  This  way,"  she  said  —  and  added  softly,  as  one 
who  would  not  revive  a  sadness,  her  own  idea  of  the 
matter. 

'•  Where  did  Spring  die  ?     I  did  not  hear  her  go 
Down  the  soft  lane  she  painted.      All  flower  still 
She  moved  among  her  emblems  on  the  hill 
Touching  away  their  burden  of  old  snow. 
Was  it  on  some  great  down  where  long  winds  flow 
That  the  wild  spirit  of  Spring  went  out  to  fill 
The  eyes  of  Summer  ?     Did  a  daffodil 
Lift  the  pale  urn  remote  where  she  lies  low  ? 

"  Oh,  not  as  other  moments  did  she  die, 
That  woman-season,  outlined  like  a  rose. 
Before  the  banner  of  Autumn's  scarlet  bough 
The  Summer  fell ;  and  Winter,  with  a  cry, 
Wed  with  March  wind.      Spring  did  not  die  like  those  ; 
But  vaguely,  as  if  Love  had  prompted,  '  Now.'  ' 

The  New  Lady's  theory  does  not  agree  with  that 
of  Little  Child.  I  am  in  doubt  which  to  accept. 
But  I  like  to  think  about  both. 


UNDERN  187 

And  when  the  New  Lady  had  said  the  faint  re- 
quiem, we  drove  on  again  and  the  next  moment  had 
almost  run  down  Nicholas  Moor,  lying  face  down- 
ward in  the  lush  grass. 

I  recognized  him  at  once,  but  of  course  the  New 
Lady  did  not  do  so,  and  she  leaned  from  the  cart, 
thoroughly  alarmed  at  the  boy's  posture  and,  as  he 
looked  up,  at  his  pallor. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  she  cried,  and  her 
voice  was  so  heavenly  pitying  that  one  would  have 
been  willing  to  have  most  things  the  matter  only  to 
hear  her. 

Nicholas  Moor  scrambled  awkwardly  to  his  feet, 
and  stood  abashed,  looking  as  strangely  detached 
from  the  moment  as  if  he  had  fallen  from  a  frame 
and  left  the  rest  of  the  picture  behind. 

"  Nothing.  I  just  like  to  be  here,"  he  was  sur- 
prised into  saying. 

The  New  Lady  sat  down  and  smiled.  And  her 
smile  was  even  more  captivating  than  had  been  her 
late  alarm. 

"  So  do  I,"  she  told  him  heartily.  "  So  do  I. 
What  do  you  like  about  it,  best  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  that  any  one  had  ever  before 
spoken  to  Nicholas  so  simply,  and  he  answered, 
chord  for  chord. 

"  I  guess  —  I  guess  I  like  it  just  on  account  of 
its  being  the  way  it  is,"  he  said. 


1 88        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"That  is  a  very,  very  nice  reason,"  the  New 
Lady  commented.  "  Again,  so  do  I." 

We  left  him,  I  remember,  looking  about  as  if  he 
were  seeing  it  all  for  the  first  time. 

As  we  drove  away  I  told  my  New  Lady  about 
Nicholas,  and  she  looked  along  her  own  thought 
and  shook  her  head. 

"  There  must  be  hundreds  of  them,"  she  said, 
"and  some  are  poets.  But  most  of  them  are  only 
lonesome.  I  wonder  which  Nicholas  is  ?  " 

We  lingered  out-of-doors  as  long  as  we  might, 
because  the  touch  of  the  outdoors  was  so  compan- 
ioning that  to  go  indoors  was  a  distinct  good-by. 
Is  it  so  with  you  that  some  Days,  be  they  never  so 
sunny,  yet  walk  with  you  in  a  definite  reserve  and 
seem  to  be  looking  somewhere  else  ;  while  other 
Days  come  to  you  like  another  way  of  being  your- 
self and  will  not  let  you  go  ?  I  know  that  some 
will  put  it  down  to  mood  and  not  to  the  Day  at 
all ;  but,  do  what  I  will,  I  cannot  credit  this. 

It  was  after  five  o'clock  when  we  drove  into  the 
village,  and  all  Daphne  Street  was  watering  its  lawns. 
Of  those  who  were  watering  some  pretended  not  to 
see  us,  but  I  understood  that  this  they  accounted 
the  etiquette  due  to  a  new  arrival.  Some  bowed 
with  an  excess  of  cordiality,  and  this  I  understood 
to  be  the  pleasant  thought  that  they  would  show  my 
guest  how  friendly  we  all  are.  And  some  laid  down 


UNDERN  189 

the  hose  and  came  to  the  sidewalk's  edge  to  meet 
the  New  Lady  then  and  there. 

Of  these  were  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  an'  Mis' 
Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  and  my  neighbour. 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure,"  Mis'  Post- 
master Sykes  said  graciously  to  the  New  Lady. 
"  I  must  say  it  seems  good  to  see  a  strange  face 
now  an'  then.  I  s'pose  you  feel  all  travel  dust 
an'  mussed  up  ?  " 

And  at  Mis'  Holcomb's  hitching  post:  — 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb.  "  I 
was  saying  to  Eppleby  that  I  wondered  if  you'd 
come.  Eppleby  says,  c  I  donno,  but  like  enough 
they've  went  for  a  ride  somewheres.'  Lovely  day, 
ain't  it  ?  Been  to  the  cemetery  ?  " 

I  said  that  we  had  not  been  there  yet,  and, 

"  Since  it's  kept  up  it  makes  a  real  nice  thing  to 
show  folks,"  Mis'  Holcomb  said.  "  I  s'pose  you 
wouldn't  come  inside  for  a  bite  of  supper,  would 
you  ? " 

My  neighbour — bless  her!  —  had  on  a  black 
wool  dress  to  do  honour  to  my  guest. 

"  It's  nice  for  the  neighbours  to  see  company 
comin'  and  goin',"  she  said  cordially,  "  though 
of  course  we  don't  have  any  of  the  extra  work. 
But  I  guess  everybody  likes  extra  work  of  this 
kind." 

And  as  we  drove  away  :  — 


1 9o       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE  LOVE   STORIES 

"  Good-by,"  she  cried,  "  I  hope  you'll  have  a 
good  night's  rest  and  a  good  breakfast." 

When  I  looked  at  the  New  Lady  I  saw  her  eyes 
ever  so  slightly  misted. 

"Spring  didn't  die,"  she  said  —  as  Little  Child 
had  said.  "  Spring  knew  how  to  keep  alive.  It 
got  down  in  these  people's  hearts." 

Yes,  the  New  Lady  is  a  wholly  satisfactory  guest. 
She  even  pretended  not  to  notice  Peter's  father 
who,  as  we  alighted,  came  singing  by,  and  bowed 
to  us,  his  barren  old  face  lighted  with  a  smile,  as  a 
vacant  room  is  lighted,  revealing  the  waste.  If  I 
had  some  one  staying  with  me  who  had  smiled  at 
Peter's  father  or — at  any  one,  or  who  did  not  see  the 
village  as  it  is,  I  think  I  should  be  tempted  to  do 
as  my  neighbour  did  to  me  that  morning :  pick 
three  carnation  pinks  for  her  and  watch  her  go 
away. 


XII 

THE    WAY    THE    WORLD    IS 

WAS  it  not  inevitable  that  poor,  lonely  Nicholas 
Moor  should  have  sought  out  my  New  Lady  ?  A 
night  or  two  after  her  arrival  he  saw  her  again,  at  a 
supper  in  the  church  "  lecture-room."  He  was 
bringing  in  a  great  freezer  of  ice-cream  and  when 
she  greeted  him  he  had  all  but  dropped  the  freezer. 
Then  a  certain,  big  obvious  deacon  whose  garden 
adjoined  my  own  had  come  importantly  and  snatched 
the  burden  away,  and  the  boy  had  stood,  shamefast, 
trying  to  say  something ;  but  his  face  was  lighted  as 
at  a  summons.  So  the  New  Lady  had  divined  his 
tragedy,  the  loneliness  which  his  shyness  masked  as 
some  constant  plight  of  confusion. 

"  Come  and  see  me  sometime,"  she  had  impul- 
sively bidden  him.  "  Do  you  know  where  I  am 
staying  ? " 

Did  he  know  that !  Since  he  had  seen  her  in  the 
meadow  had  he  known  anything  else  ?  And  after 
some  days  of  hard  trying  he  came  one  night,  arriving 
within  the  dusk  as  behind  a  wall.  Even  in  the  twi- 
light, when  he  was  once  under  the  poplars,  he  did 

191 


1 92        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

not  know  what  way  to  look.  To  seem  to  look 
straight  along  the  road  was  unnatural.  To  seem  to 
look  out  across  the  opposite  fields  was  hypocrisy. 
To  look  at  the  house  which  held  the  New  Lady  was 
unthinkable.  So,  as  he  went  in  at  the  gate  and  up 
the  fern-bordered  walk,  he  examined  the  back  of  his 
hand  —  near,  and  then  a  little  farther  away.  As  he 
reached  the  steps  he  was  absorbedly  studying  his 
thumb. 

From  a  place  of  soft  light,  shed  through  a  pink 
box  shade  on  the  table,  and  of  scattered  willow 
chairs  and  the  big  leaves  of  plants,  the  New  Lady 
came  toward  him. 

"  You  did  come  !  "  she  said.  "  I  thought  you 
wouldn't,  really." 

With  the  utmost  effort  Nicholas  detached  one 
hand  from  his  hat  brim  and  gave  it  her.  From 
head  to  foot  he  was  conscious,  not  of  the  touch  of 
her  hand,  little  and  soft,  but  of  the  bigness  and 
coarseness  of  his  own  hand. 

"  I  hated  to  come  like  everything,"  he  said. 

At  this  of  course  she  laughed,  and  she  went  back 
to  her  willow  chair  and  motioned  him  to  his.  He 
got  upon  it,  crimson  and  wretched. 

"  As  much  as  that !  "  she  observed. 

"  You  know  I  wanted  to  come  awfully,  too,"  he 
modified  it,  "  but  I  dreaded  it  —  like  sixty.  I  —  I 
can't  explain  .  .  ."  he  stumbled. 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  193 

"  Don't,"  said  the  New  Lady,  lightly,  and  took 
pity  on  him  and  rang  a  little  bell. 

She  thought  again  how  fine  and  distinguished  he 
was,  as  he  had  seemed  to  her  on  the  day  when  she 
had  first  spoken  to  him.  He  sat  staring  at  her,  try- 
ing to  realize  that  he  was  on  the  veranda  with  her, 
hearing  the  sound  of  the  little  bell  she  had  rung. 
He  had  wanted  something  like  this,  wistfully,  pas- 
sionately. Miserable  as  he  was,  he  rested  in  the 
moment  as  within  arms.  And  the  time  seemed  dis- 
tilled in  that  little  silver  bell-sound  and  the  intimacy 
of  waiting  with  her  for  some  one  to  come. 

He  knew  that  some  one  with  a  light  footfall 
did  come  to  the  veranda.  He  heard  the  New  Lady 
call  her  Elfa.  But  he  saw  only  her  hands,  plump 
and  capable  and  shaped  like  his  own,  moving  among 
the  glasses.  After  which  his  whole  being  became 
absorbed  in  creditably  receiving  the  tall,  cool  tumbler 
on  the  tray  which  the  capable  hands  held  out  to  him. 
A  period  of  suspended  intelligence  ensued,  until  he 
set  the  empty  glass  on  the  table.  Then  the  little 
maid  had  gone,  and  the  New  Lady,  sipping  her  own 
glass,  was  talking  to  him. 

"You  were  lying  on  the  grass  that  day,"  she  said, 
"  as  if  you  understood  grass.  Not  many  do  under- 
stand about  grass,  and  almost  nobody  understands 
the  country.  People  say,  c  Come,  let  us  go  into  the 
country/  and  when  they  get  there  is  it  the  country 


i94       FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE  LOVE   STORIES 

they  want  at  all  ?  No,  it  is  the  country  sports,  the 
country  home,  —  everything  but  the  real  country. 
They  play  match  games.  They  make  expeditions, 
climb  things  in  a  stated  time,  put  in  a  day  at  a  stated 
place.  I  often  think  that  they  must  go  home  leav- 
ing the  country  aghast  that  they  could  have  come 
and  gone  and  paid  so  little  heed  to  it.  Presently  we 
are  going  to  have  some  charming  people  out  here 
who  will  do  the  same  thing." 

So  she  talked,  asking  him  nothing,  even  her  eyes 
leaving  him  free.  It  seemed  to  him,  tense  and  alert 
and  ill  at  ease  as  he  listened,  that  he,  too,  was  talking 
to  her.  From  the  pressing  practicalities,  the  self-im- 
portant deacon,  the  people  who  did  not  trouble  to  talk 
to  him,  his  world  abruptly  escaped,  and  in  that  world 
he  walked,  an  escaped  thing  too,  forgetful  even  of 
the  little  roll  of  verses  which  he  had  dared  to  bring. 

Yet  when  she  paused,  he  looked  out  at  her  shrink- 
ingly  from  under  his  need  to  reply.  He  did  not 
look  at  her  face,  but  he  looked  at  her  hands,  so  little 
that  each  time  he  saw  them  they  were  a  new  surprise 
and  alien  to  him.  He  looked  away  from  them  to 
the  friendliness  of  her  smile.  And  when  he  heard 
himself  saying  detached,  irrelevant  things,  he  again 
fell  to  studying  one  of  his  own  hands,  big  and  coarse 
and  brown.  Oh,  he  thought,  the  difference  between 
her  and  him  was  so  hopelessly  the  difference  in  their 
hands. 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  195 

In  an  absurdly  short  time  the  need  to  be  gone 
was  upon  him ;  but  of  this  he  could  not  speak,  and 
he  sat  half  unconscious  of  what  she  was  saying, 
because  of  his  groping  for  the  means  to  get  away. 
Clearly,  he  must  not  interrupt  her  to  say  that  he 
must  go.  Neither  could  he  reply  to  what  she  said 
by  announcing  his  intention.  And  yet  when  he 
answered  what  she  said,  straightway  her  exquisite 
voice  went  on  with  its  speech  to  him.  How,  he 
wondered,  does  anybody  ever  get  away  from  any- 
where ?  If  only  something  would  happen,  so  that 
he  could  slip  within  it  as  within  doors,  and  take  his 
leave. 

Something  did  happen.  By  way  of  the  garden, 
and  so  to  a  side  door,  there  arrived  those  whose 
garden  adjoined, — the  big,  obvious,  self-important 
deacon,  and  behind  him  Three  Light  Gowns.  The 
little  maid  Elfa  came  showing  them  through  the 
house,  in  the  pleasant  custom  of  the  village.  And 
when  the  New  Lady,  with  pretty,  expected  mur- 
murings,  rose  to  meet  them,  Nicholas  got  to  his  feet 
confronting  the  crisis  of  saying  good-by,  and  the 
moment  closed  upon  him  like  a  vise.  He  heard  his 
voice  falter  among  the  other  voices,  he  saw  himself 
under  the  necessity  to  take  her  hand  and  the  deacon's 
hand,  and  the  hands,  so  to  speak,  of  the  Three 
Light  Gowns  ;  and  this  he  did  as  in  a  kind  of  unprac- 
tised bewildering  minuet. 


196        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

And  then  he  found  his  eyes  on  a  level  with  eyes 
that  he  had  not  seen  before — blue  eyes,  gentle, 
watching,  wide  —  and  a  fresh,  friendly  little  face 
under  soft  hair.  It  was  Elfa,  taking  away  the  empty 
glasses.  And  the  boy,  in  his  dire  need  to  ease  the 
instant,  abruptly  and  inexplicably  held  out  his  hand 
to  her  too.  She  blushed,  sent  a  frightened  look  to 
the  New  Lady,  and  took  the  hand  in  hers  that  was 
plump  and  capable,  with  its  strong,  round  wrist 
And  the  little  maid,  being  now  in  an  embarrassment 
like  his  own,  the  two  hands  clung  for  a  moment,  as 
if  they  had  each  the  need. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  trembling. 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  New  Lady,  very  gently. 

"  Oh,  good  night !  "  burst  from  the  boy  as  he  fled 
away. 

It  was  Elfa  who  admitted  him  at  his  next  coming. 
The  screened  porch  was  once  more  in  soft  light  from 
the  square  rose  shade,  and  the  place  had  the  usual 
pleasant,  haunted  air  of  the  settings  of  potentialities. 
As  if  potentiality  were  a  gift  of  enchantment  to 
human  folk. 

The  New  Lady  was  not  at  home,  Elfa  told  him, 
in  her  motherly  little  heart  pitying  him.  And  at 
the  news  he  sat  down,  quite  simply,  in  the  chair  in 
which  he  had  sat  before.  He  must  see  her.  It 
was  unthinkable  that  she  should  be  away.  To- 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  197 

night  he  had  meant  to  have  the  courage  to  leave 
with  her  his  verses. 

On  the  willow  table  lay  her  needlework.  It  was 
soft  and  white  beyond  the  texture  of  most  clouds, 
and  she  had  wrought  on  it  a  pattern  like  the  lines  on 
a  river.  As  his  eyes  rested  on  it,  Nicholas  could 
fancy  it  lying  against  her  white  gown  and  upon  it 
her  incomparable  hands.  Some  way,  she  seemed 
nearer  to  him  when  he  was  not  with  her  than  when, 
with  her  incomparable  hands  and  her  fluent  speech, 
she  was  in  his  presence.  When  she  was  not  with  him, 
he  could  think  what  to  say  to  her.  When  he  stood 
before  her  —  the  thought  of  his  leave-taking  on  that 
veranda  seized  upon  him,  so  that  he  caught  his 
breath  in  the  sharp  thrust  of  mortified  recollection, 
and  looked  away  and  up.  ^ 

His  eyes  met  those  of  Elfa,  who  was  quietly  sit- 
ting opposite. 

"  How  they  must  all  have  laughed  at  me.  You 
too  !  "  he  said. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  last  time  I  was  here.  Shaking  hands  that 
way,"  he  explained. 

"  I  didn't  laugh,"  she  unexpectedly  protested ;  "  I 
cried." 

He  looked  at  her.  And  this  was  as  if  he  were 
seeing  her  for  the  first  time. 

"Cried?"  he  repeated. 


198        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

cc  Nobody  ever  shakes  hands  with  me/'  Elfa  told 
him. 

He  stared  at  her  as  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
chair,  her  plump  hands  idle  on  her  apron. 

"  No,"  he  admitted,  "  no,  I  don't  suppose  they 
do.  I  didn't  think  —  " 

But  he  had  not  thought  of  her  at  all. 

"  By  the  door  all  day  I  let  in  hand-shakes,"  she 
said,  "  an'  then  I  let  'em  out  again.  But  I  don't 
get  any  of  'em  for  me." 

That,  Nicholas  saw,  was  true  enough.  Even  he 
had  been  mortified  because  he  had  taken  her  hand. 

"  Once,"  Elfa  said,  "  I  fed  a  woman  at  the  back 
door.  An'  when  she  went  she  took  hold  o'  my 
hand,  thankful.  An'  then  you  done  it  too  —  like  it 
was  a  mistake.  That's  all,  since  I  worked  out.  I 
don't  know  folks  outside  much,  only  some  that  don't 
shake  hands,  'count  of  seemin'  ashamed  to." 

"  I  know,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  went  on,  cc  folks  come  here  an' 
walk  in  to  see  her  an'  they  don't  shake.  Ain't 
it  funny  —  when  folks  can  an'  don't?  When  they 
come  from  the  city  to-morrow,  the  whole  house  '11 
shake  hands,  but  me.  Once  I  went  to  prayer- 
meetin'  an'  I  hung  around  waitin'  to  see  if  somebody 
wouldn't.  But  they  didn't  —  any  of  'em.  It  was 
rainin'  outside  an'  I  guess  they  thought  I  come  with 
somebody's  rubbers." 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  199 

Nicholas  looked  at  her  a  little  fearfully.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  that  in  a  great  world  of  light  he  had 
always  moved  in  a  little  hollow  of  darkness  and 
detachment.  Were  there,  then,  other  hollows  like 
that?  Places  to  which  outstretched  hands  never 
penetrate  ?  A  great  understanding  possessed  him. 
and  he  burst  out  in  an  effort  to  express  it. 

"  You're  a  funny  girl,"  he  said. 

She  flushed,  and  suddenly  lifted  one  hand  and 
looked  at  it.  Nicholas  watched  her  now  intently. 
She  studied  the  back  of  her  hand,  turned  it,  and  sat 
absorbedly  examining  her  little  thumb.  And  Nicho- 
las felt  a  sudden  sense  of  understanding,  of  gladness 
that  he  understood.  As  he  felt  when  he  was  afraid 
and  wretched,  so  Elfa  was  feeling  now. 

He  leaned  toward  her. 

"  Don't  feel  afraid,"  he  said  gently. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't,  truly.  I  guess 
that's  why  I  stayed  here  now.  She  won't  be  back 
till  ten  —  I  ought  to  have  said  so  before.  You  — 
you  won't  want  to  wait  so  long." 

He  rose  at  once.  And  now,  being  at  his  ease, 
his  head  was  erect,  his  arms  naturally  fallen,  his  face 
as  confident  and  as  occupied  by  his  spirit  as  when 
he  lay  alone  in  the  meadows. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "let's  shake  hands  again  !" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and,  in  their  peculiarly 


200       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

winning  upward  look,  her  eyes  —  blue,  wide,  watch- 
ful, with  that  brooding  mother  watchfulness  of  some 
women,  even  in  youth.  And  her  hand  met  his  in 
the  clasp  which  is  born  of  the  simple,  human  long- 
ing of  kind  for  kind. 

"  Good-by,"  she  answered  his  good-by,  and  they 
both  laughed  a  little  in  a  shyness  which  was  a  way 
of  delight. 

In  the  days  to  follow  there  flowed  in  the  boy's 
veins  a  tide  of  novel  sweetness.  And  now  his 
thoughts  eluded  one  another  and  made  no  chain,  so 
that  when  he  tried  to  remember  what,  on  that  first 
evening,  the  New  Lady  and  he  had  talked  about, 
there  came  only  a  kind  of  pleasure,  but  it  had  no 
name.  Everything  that  he  had  to  do  pressed  upon 
him,  and  when  he  could  get  time  he  was  away  to 
the  meadow,  looking  down  on  the  chimneys  of  that 
house,  and  swept  by  a  current  that  was  like  a  sing- 
ing. And  always,  always  it  was  as  if  some  one  were 
with  him. 

There  came  a  night  when  he  could  no  longer 
bear  it,  when  his  wish  took  him  to  itself  and  carried 
him  with  it.  Those  summer  dusks,  warm  yellow 
with  their  moon  and  still  odorous  of  spring,  were 
hard  to  endure  alone.  Since  the  evening  with  her, 
Nicholas  had  not  seen  the  New  Lady  save  when, 
not  seeing  him,  she  had  driven  past  in  a  phaeton. 
At  the  sight  of  her,  and  once  at  the  sight  of  Elfa 


THE   WAY  THE  WORLD   IS  201 

from  that  house,  a  faintness  had  seized  him,  so  that 
he  had  wondered  at  himself  for  some  one  else,  and 
then  with  a  poignancy  that  was  new  pain,  new  joy, 
the  new  life,  had  rejoiced  that  he  was  himself.  So, 
when  he  could  no  longer  bear  it,  he  took  his  even- 
ing way  toward  the  row  of  poplars,  regretting  the 
moonlight  lest  by  it  they  should  see  him  coming. 
And  ,to-night  he  had  with  him  no  verses,  but  only 
his  longing  heart. 

He  had  no  intimation  of  the  guests,  for  the  win- 
dows at  that  house  were  always  brightly  lighted, 
and  until  he  was  within  the  screened  veranda  the 
sound  of  voices  did  not  reach  him.  Then  from  the 
rooms  there  came  a  babel  of  soft  speech  and  laugh- 
ter, and  a  touch  of  chords ;  and  when  he  would  have 
incontinently  retreated,  the  New  Lady  crossed  the 
hall  and  saw  him. 

She  came  to  the  doorway  and  greeted  him,  and 
Nicholas  looked  up  in  the  choking  discomfort  of 
sudden  fear.  She  was  in  a  gown  that  was  like  her 
needlework,  mysteriously  fashioned  and  intricate 
with  shining  things  which  made  her  infinitely  re- 
mote. The  incomparable  little  hands  were  quite 
covered  with  jewels.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  to 
see  a  spirit  and  had  met  a  woman. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  again,"  she  said. 
"  Come,  I  want  my  friends  to  meet  you." 

Her  friends  !  That  quick  crossing  of  words  within 


202        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

there,  then,  meant  the  presence  of  her  friends  from 
the  city. 

"  I  couldn't!  I  came  for  a  book  —  I'll  get  it 
some  other  time.  I've  got  to  go  now  !  "  Nicholas 
said. 

Then,  "  Bettina  —  Bettina  !  "  some  one  called 
from  within,  and  a  man  appeared  in  the  hallway, 
smiled  at  sight  of  the  New  Lady,  dropped  his  glass 
at  sight  of  Nicholas,  bowed,  turned  away  —  oh, 
how  should  he  know  that  her  name  was  Bettina 
when  Nicholas  had  not  known ! 

This  time  he  did  not  say  good  night  at  all.  This 
time  he  did  not  look  at  his  great  hand,  which  was 
trembling,  but  he  got  away,  mumbling  something, 
his  retreat  graciously  covered  by  the  New  Lady's 
light  words.  And,  the  sooner  to  be  gone  and  out 
of  the  moonlight  that  would  let  them  see  him  go, 
he  struck  blindly  into  the  path  that  led  to  the  side 
gate  of  the  garden.  The  mortification  that  chains 
spirit  to  flesh  and  tortures  both  held  him  and  tor- 
tured him.  For  a  breath  he  imagined  himself  up 
there  among  them  all,  his  hands  holding  his  hat, 
imagined  having  to  shake  hands  with  them  :  and 
somehow  this  way  of  fellowship,  this  meeting  of 
hands  outstretched  for  hands,  seemed,  with  them, 
the  supreme  ordeal,  the  true  symbol  of  his  alien 
state  from  them  and  from  the  New  Lady.  No 
doubt  she  understood  him,  but  for  the  first  time 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  203 

Nicholas  saw  that  this  is  not  enough.  For  the  first 
time  he  saw  that  she  was  as  far  away  from  him  as 
were  the  others.  How  easy,  Nicholas  thought  pite- 
ously,  those  people  in  her  house  all  found  it  to  act 
the  way  they  wanted  to  !  Their  hands  must  be  like 
her  hands.  .  .  . 

He  got  through  the  garden  and  to  the  side  gate. 
And  now  the  old  loneliness  was  twofold  upon  him 
because  he  had  known  what  it  is  to  reach  from  the 
dark  toward  the  light ;  yet  when  he  saw  that  at  the 
gate  some  one  was  standing,  he  halted  in  his  old 
impulse  to  be  on  guard,  hunted  by  the  fear  that 
this  would  be  somebody  alien  to  him.  Then  he 
saw  that  it  was  no  one  from  another  star,  but 
Elfa. 

"  Oh  .  .  ."  he  said,  and  that,  too,  was  what  she 
said,  but  he  did  not  hear.  Not  from  another  star 
she  came,  but  from  the  deep  of  the  world  where 
Nicholas  felt  himself  alone. 

"  I  —  was  just  going  away,"  he  explained. 

For  assent  she  stepped  a  little  back,  saying  noth- 
ing. But  when  Nicholas  would  have  passed  her  it 
was  as  if  the  immemorial  loneliness  and  the  seeking 
of  forgotten  men  innumerable  stirred  within  him  in 
the  ache  of  his  heart,  in  the  mere  desperate  wish  to 
go  to  somebody,  to  be  with  somebody,  to  have  some- 
body by  the  hand. 

He  turned  upon  Elfa  almost  savagely. 


204       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  Shake  hands  !  "  he  said. 

Obediently  she  put  out  her  hand,  which  of  itself 
stayed  ever  so  briefly,  within  his.  He  held  it,  feel- 
ing himself  crushing  it,  clinging  to  it,  being  possessed 
by  it.  Her  hand  was,  like  his,  rough  from  its  work, 
and  it  was  something  alive,  something  human,  some- 
thing that  answered.  And  instantly  it  was  not  Elfa 
alone  who  was  there  companioning  him,  but  the  dark 
was  quick  with  presences,  besieging  him,  letting  him 
know  that  no  one  alive  is  alone,  that  he  was  some- 
how one  of  a  comrade  company,  within,  without, 
encompassing.  And  the  boy  was  caught  up  by  the 
sweet  will  outside  his  own  will  and  he  never  knew 
how  it  was  that  he  had  Elfa  in  his  arms. 

"  Come  here.     Come  here  .  .  ."  he  said. 

To  Elfa,  in  her  loneliness  threaded  by  its  own 
dream,  the  moment,  exquisite  and  welcome  as  it  was, 
was  yet  as  natural  as  her  own  single  being.  But  to 
the  boy  it  was  not  yet  the  old  miracle  of  one  world 
built  from  another.  It  was  only  the  answer  to  the 
groping  of  hands  for  hands,  the  mere  human  call  to 
be  companioned.  And  the  need  to  reassure  her 
came  upon  him  like  the  mantle  of  an  elder  time. 

"  Don't  feel  afraid,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  gave  him  their  winning  upward  look, 
and  it  was  as  if  their  mother  watchfulness  answered 
him  gravely  :  — 

"  I  don't.     I  don't,  truly." 


THE   WAY   THE   WORLD   IS  205 

And  at  this  she  laughed  a  little,  so  that  he  joined 
her;  and  their  laughter  together  was  a  new  delight. 

Across  the  adjoining  lawn  Nicholas  could  see  in 
the  moonlight  the  moving  figure  of  the  big  deacon, 
a  Light  Gown  or  two  attending.  A  sudden  surpris- 
ing sense  of  safety  from  them  overswept  the  boy. 
What  if  they  did  come  that  way  !  What,  he  even 
thought,  if  those  people  in  the  house  were  to  come 
by  ?  Somehow,  the  little  hollow  of  dark  in  which 
he  had  always  walked  in  the  midst  of  light  was  as 
light  as  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  he  was  not  afraid. 
And  all  this  because  Elfa  did .  not  stir  in  his  arms, 
but  was  still,  as  if  they  were  her  harbour.  And  then 
Nicholas  knew  what  they  both  meant. 

"Elfa!"  he  cried,  "do  you  .  .  .  ?" 

"  I  guess  I  must  .  .  ."  she  said,  and  knew  no 
way  to  finish  that. 

"  Love  me  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  bold  as  a  lion. 

"  I  meant  that  too,"  Elfa  said. 

Between  the  New  Lady's  house  and  the  big,  ob- 
vious deacon's  lawn  the  boy  stood,  silent,  his  arms 
about  the  girl.  So  this  was  the  way  the  world  is, 
people  bound  together,  needing  one  another,  wanting 
one  another,  stretching  out  their  hands.  ... 

"  Why,  it  was  you  I  wanted  !  "  Nicholas  said  won- 
deringly. 


XIII 

HOUSE  HOLDRY 

"AFTER  supper"  in  the  village  is  like  another 
room  of  the  day.  On  these  summer  nights  we  all 
come  out  to  our  porches  to  read  the  daily  paper,  or 
we  go  to  sit  on  the  porch  of  a  neighbour,  or  we 
walk  about  our  lawns  in  excesses  of  leisure,  giving 
little  twitches  to  this  green  and  to  that.  "In  our 
yards  "  we  usually  say.  Of  these  some  are  so  tiny 
that  the  hammocks  or  the  red  swinging-chairs  find 
room  on  the  planting  spaces  outside  the  walks,  and 
there  men  smoke  and  children  frolic  and  call  across 
the  street  to  one  another.  And  this  evening,  as  I 
went  down  Daphne  Street  to  post  my  letters,  I  saw 
in  process  the  occasional  evening  tasks  which  I  have 
noted,  performed  out-of-doors :  at  the  Sykeses' 
cucumbers  in  preparation  for  to-morrow's  pickles  ;  a 
bushel  of  over-ripe  cherries  arrived  unexpectedly  at 
the  Herons'  and  being  pitted  by  hand ;  a  belated 
needle-task  of  Mis'  Holcomb's  finishing  itself  in  the 
tenuous  after-light.  This  fashion  of  taking  various 
employments  into  the  open  delights  me.  If  we 
have  peas  to  shell  or  beans  to  string  or  corn  to  husk, 

206 


HOUSEHOLDRY  207 

straightway  we  take  them  to  the  porch  or  into  the 
yard.  This  seems  to  me  to  hold  something  of 
the  grace  of  the  days  in  the  Joyous  Garde,  or  on 
the  grounds  of  old  chateaux  where  they  embroid- 
ered or  wound  worsted  in  woodland  glades,  or  of 
colonial  America,  where  we  had  out  our  spinning 
wheels  under  the  oaks.  When  I  see  a  great  shining 
boiler  of  gasoline  carried  to  the  side  yard  for  the 
washing  of  delicate  fabrics,  I  like  to  think  of  it  as 
done  out-of-doors  for  the  charm  of  it  as  much  as 
for  the  safety.  So  Nausicaa  would  have  cleansed 
with  gasoline ! 

It  was  sight  of  the  old  Aunt  Effie  sewing  a  seam 
in  Mis'  Holcomb's  dooryard  which  decided  me 
to  go  to  see  Miggy.  For  I  would  not  willingly  be 
where  Aunt  Effie  is,  who  has  always  some  tragedy 
of  gravy-scorching  or  dish-breaking  to  tell  me.  I 
have  been  for  some  time  promising  to  go  to  see 
Miggy  in  her  home,  and  this  was  the  night  to  do 
so,  for  the  New  Lady  went  home  to-day  and  I  have 
been  missing  her  sorely.  There  is  a  kind  of  minus- 
New  Lady  feeling  about  the  universe. 

At  the  same  moment  that  I  decided  for  Miggy, 
Peter  rose  out  of  the  ground.  I  wonder  if  he  can 
have  risen  a  very  little  first?  But  that  is  one  of 
those  puzzles  much  dwelt  upon  by  the  theologians, 
and  I  will  not  decide.  Perhaps  the  thought  of 
Miggy  is  a  mighty  motive  on  which  Peter's  very 


208        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

being  is  conditioned.  Anyway,  there  he  was,  sud- 
denly beside  me,  and  telling  me  some  everyday 
affair  of  how  little  use  in  the  cannery  were  Shorty 
Burns  and  Tony  Thomas  and  Dutchie  Wade, 
whose  houses  we  were  passing.  And  to  his  talk 
of  shop  I  responded  by  inviting  him  to  go  with  me 
to  see  Miggy.  Would  he  go  ?  He  smiled  his 
slow  smile,  with  that  little  twist  of  mouth  and  lift- 
ing of  brow. 

"This  is  like  finding  an  evening  where  there 
wasn't  one  before,"  he  said. 

The  little  house  where  Miggy  lives  has  a  copper 
beech  in  the  dooryard  —  these  red-leaved  trees 
seem  to  be  always  in  a  kind  of  hush  at  their  own 
difference.  The  house  is  no-colour,  with  trimmings 
of  another  no-colour  for  contrast,  and  the  little 
front  porch  looks  like  something  that  has  started 
to  run  out  the  front  door  and  is  being  sternly 
snatched  backward.  The  door  stood  ajar  —  no 
doubt  for  the  completion  of  this  transaction  —  and 
no  one  was  about.  We  rapped,  for  above  the  bell 
push  was  a  legend  of  Aunt  Effie's  inscribing,  say- 
ing :  "  Bell  don't  ring."  For  a  moment  our  sum- 
mons was  unanswered.  Then  Miggy  cajled  from 
upstairs. 

"  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  she  said.  "  Go  right 
in,  both  of  you,  and  wait  for  me  —  will  you  ?  " 

To  take  the  cards  of  one's  visitors  from  a  butler 


HOUSEHOLDRY  209 

of  detached  expression  or  from  a  maid  with  inquisi- 
tive eyelashes  is  to  know  nothing  of  the  charm  of 
this  custom  of  ours  of  peeping  from  behind  an 
upper  curtain  where  we  happen  to  be  dressing,  and 
alone  in  the  house,  at  the  ringing  of  the  doorbell, 
and  of  calling  down  to  a  back  which  we  recognize 
an  informal  "Oh,  go  right  in  and  wait  for  me  a 
minute,  will  you  ? "  In  this  habit  there  is  survival 
of  old  tribal  loyalties  and  hospitalities ;  for  let  the 
back  divined  below  be  the  back  of  a  stranger,  that 
is  to  say,  of  a  barbarian,  and  we  stay  behind  our 
curtains,  silent,  till  it  goes  away. 

In  the  sitting  room  at  Miggy's  house  a  little  hand 
lamp  was  burning,  the  fine  yellow  light  making  near 
disclosures  of  colour  and  form,  and  farther  away 
formulating  presences  of  shadow.  Aunt  Effie  had 
been  at  her  sewing,  and  there  were  yards  of  blue 
muslin  billowing  over  a  sunken  arm-chair  and  a 
foam  of  white  lining  on  the  Brussels-covered  couch. 
The  long  blue  cotton  spread  made  the  big  table 
look  like  a  fat  Delft  sugar  bowl,  and  the  red  curtains 
were  robbed  of  crude  colour  and  given  an  obscure 
rosy  glow.  A  partly  finished  waist  disguised  the 
gingerbread  of  the  what-not,  one  forgot  the  carpet, 
the  pictures  became  to  the  neutral  wall  what  words 
which  nobody  understands  are  to  ministering  music. 
And  on  the  floor  before  the  lounge  lay  Little  Child 
and  Bless-your-Heart,  asleep. 


210        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE    LOVE    STORIES 

At  first  I  did  not  see  the  child.  It  was  Peter 
who  saw  her.  He  stooped  and  lifted  her,  the 
kitten  still  in  her  arms,  and  instead  of  saying  any  of 
the  things  a  woman  might  have  said,  Peter  said 
"  Well  .  .  ."  with  a  tenderness  in  his  voice  such  as 
women  can  give  and  more.  For  a  man's  voice-to-a- 
child  gets  down  deeper  than  happiness.  I  suppose 
it  is  that  the  woman  has  always  stayed  with  the 
child  in  the  cave  or  the  tent  or  the  house,  while  the 
man  has  gone  out  to  kill  or  to  conquer  or  to  trade ; 
and  the  ancient  crooning  safety  is  still  in  the  woman's 
voice,  and  the  ancient  fear  that  he  may  not  come 
back  to  them  both  is  in  the  voice  of  the  man. 
When  Peter  lifted  Little  Child  in  his  arms,  I 
wished  that  Miggy  had  been  there  to  hear. 

"  What's  it  dreaming  about  ?  "  Peter  said. 

"'Bout  Miggy,"  said  Little  Child  sleepily,  and 
she  snuggled  in  Peter's  coat  collar. 

"  Dream  about  Peter  too  ! "  Peter  commanded. 

"  Well,  /  will,"  promised  Little  Child  o'  Dreams, 
and  drifted  off. 

Peter  sank  awkwardly  down  to  the  floor  and 
held  her  so,  and  he  sat  there  stroking  Bless-your- 
Heart  and  looking  as  if  he  had  forgotten  me,  save 
that, cc  Shorty  Burns  and  Tony  Thomas  and  Dutchie 
Wade  that  I  was  telling  you  about,"  he  remarked 
once  irrelevantly,  "they've  each  got -a  kiddie  or  so/* 

Miggy  came  downstairs  and,  "  I'm  a  surprise," 


HOUSEHOLDRY  211 

she  said  in  the  doorway,  and  stood  there  in  a  sheer 
white  frock  —  a  frock  which  said  nothing  to  make 
you  look,  but  would  not  let  you  look  away ;  and  it 
had  a  little  rhyme  of  lace  on  this  end  and  on  that. 
It  was  the  frock  that  she  had  made  herself —  she 
told  me  so  afterward,  but  she  did  not  mention  it 
before  Peter,  and  I  liked  her  the  better  for  that. 
When  I  hear  women  boast  of  these  things  I  always 
wonder  why,  then  and  there,  I  should  not  begin  to 
recite  a  sonnet  I  have  turned,  so  as  to  have  a  hand 
in  things.  To  write  an  indifferent  sonnet  is  much 
less  than  to  make  a  frock  which  can  be  worn,  but 
yet  I  should  dislike  infinitely  to  volunteer  even  so 
little  as  a  sonnet  or  a  quatrain.  In  any  case,  it 
would  be  amazing  taste  for  me  to  do  so  ;  while  "  I 
made  it  myself"  I  hear  everywhere  in  the  village, 
especially  in  the  presence  of  the  Eligible.  But  I 
dare  say  that  this  criticism  of  mine  is  conditioned  by 
the  fact  that  my  needle-craft  cell  got  caught  in  the 
primal  protozoan  ooze  and  did  not  follow  me. 

"  Miggy  !  Oh,  Miggery !  "  said  Peter,  softly. 
He  had  made  this  name  for  a  sort  of  superlative 
of  her. 

"  Like  me  ?  "  inquired  Miggy.  I  wonder  if  even 
the  female  atom  does  not  coquette  when  the  sun 
strikes  her  to  shining  in  the  presence  of  her  atom 
lord? 

You  know  that  low,  emphatic,  unspellable  thing 


ziz        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

which  may  be  said  by  the  throat  when  a  thing  is 
liked  very  much  ?  When  one  makes  it,  it  feels 
like  a  vocal  dash  in  vocal  italics.  Peter  did  that, 
very  softly. 

"  Well,"  said  Miggy,  "  I  feel  that  dressed-up  that 
I  might  be  cut  out  of  paper.  What  are  you  doing 
down  there,  Peter  ?  " 

He  glanced  down  mutely,  and  Miggy  went  round 
the  table  and  saw  what  he  held. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  that  great  heavy  girl,  Peter. 
Give  her  to  me." 

Miggy  bent  over  Peter,  with  her  arms  outstretched 
for  the  child.  And  Peter  looked  up  at  her  and  en- 
joyed the  moment. 

"  She's  too  heavy  for  you  to  lift,"  he  said,  with 
his  occasional  quiet  authority.  "  I'll  put  her  where 
you  want  her." 

"Well,  it's  so  hot  upstairs,"  Miggy  hesitated. 
cc  It's  past  her  bedtime,  but  I  hate  to  take  her  up 
there." 

"  Undress  her  down  here,"  said  I.  "The  Delft 
sugar  bowl  shuts  you  off  a  fine  dressing-room.  And 
let  her  sleep  for  a  while  on  the  couch." 

So  Miggy  went  for  the  little  nightgown,  and 
Peter,  with  infinite  pains,  got  to  his  feet,  and  detached 
Bless-your-Heart  and  deposited  her  on  the  table, 
where  she  yawned  and  humped  her  back  and  lay 
down  on  an  unfinished  sleeve  and  went  to  sleep 


HOUSEHOLD  RY  213 

again.  And  when  Miggy  came  down,  she  threw  a 
light  quilt  and  a  pillow  near  the  couch  and  sat 
behind  the  table  and  held  out  her  arms. 

"  Now  ! "  she  said  to  Peter,  and  to  me  she  said, 
"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  spread  her  up  a  bed  there 
on  the  couch." 

"Let  Peter,"  said  I.  "  I've  another  letter  I 
ought  to  have  written.  If  I  may,  I'll  write  that  here 
while  you  undress  her." 

"Well,"  said  Miggy,  "there's  some  sheets  of  letter- 
paper  under  the  cover  of  the  big  Bible.  And  the 
ink  —  I  guess  there's  some  in  the  bottle — is  on  top 
of  the  organ.  And  the  pen  is  there  behind  the 
clock.  And  you'd  ought  to  find  a  clean  envelope 
in  that  pile  of  newspapers.  I  think  I  saw  one  there 
the  other  day.  You  spread  up  her  bed  then, 
Peter." 

I  wrote  my  letter,  and  Peter  went  at  the  making 
up  of  the  lounge,  and  Miggy  sat  behind  the  table 
to  undress  Little  Child.  And  Little  Child  began 
waking  up.  It  touched  me  infinitely  that  she  who  in 
matters  of  fairies  and  visionings  is  so  wise  and  old 
should  now,  in  her  sleepyhood,  be  just  a  baby  again. 

"I  —  won't  —  go  —  bed,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,"  said  Miggy,  "  yes.  Don't  you  feel  all  the 
little  wingies  on  your  face  ?  They're  little  dream 
wings,  and  the  dreams  are  getting  in  a  hurry  to  be 
dreamed." 


2i4       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  I  do'  know  those  dreams,"  said  Little  Child, 
"  I  do'  want  those  dreams.  Where's  Bless-your- 
Heart?" 

"  Dreaming,"  said  Miggy,  "all  alone.  Goodness, 
I  believe  you've  got  a  little  fever." 

Peter  stopped  flopping  the  quilt  aimlessly  over 
the  lounge  and  turned,  and  Miggy  laid  the  back  of 
her  hand  on  Little  Child's  cheek  and  beneath  her 
chin.  The  man  watched  her  anxiously  as,  since  the 
world  began,  millions  of  men  have  looked  down  at 
this  mysterious  pronouncement  of  the  woman. 

"  She  has  ?  "  he  said.  "  She'd  ought  not  to  have 
any  milk,  then,  had  she  ? "  he  added  vaguely.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  Miggy  must  have  paused  for  a 
moment  to  like  Peter  for  this  wholly  youthful, 
masculine  eagerness  to  show  that  he  knew  about 
such  things. 

"  I'll  fix  her  something  to  take,"  said  Miggy, 
capably.  "  No,  dear.  The  other  arm.  Straighten 
elbow." 

"  I  want  my  shoes  an'  stockin's  on  in  bed,"  Little 
Child  observed.  She  was  sitting  up,  her  head 
drooping,  her  curls  fastened  high  with  a  hairpin  of 
Miggy's.  "  An'  I  want  my  shirtie  on.  An'  all  my 
clothes.  I  won't  go  bed  if  you  don't." 

Miggy  laughed.  "Bless-your-Heart  hasn't  got 
her  clothes  on,"  she  parried. 

"  Ain't  she  got  her  furs  on  any  more  ?  "  demanded 


•  HOUSEHOLD  RY  215 

Little  Child,  opening  her  eyes.  "  She  has,  too.  She 
has  not,  too,  took  a  bath.  An'  I  won't  have  no 
bath,"  she  went  on.  "  I'm  too  old  for  'em." 

At  that  she  would  have  Bless-your-Heart  in  her 
arms,  and  there  was  some  argument  arising  from  her 
intention  to  take  the  kitten  in  one  hand  all  the  way 
through  her  nightgown  sleeve.  And  by  this  time 
sleepy  hood  tears  were  near. 

"Dont  curl  your  toes  under  so,"  said  Miggy, 
struggling  with  a  shoe.  "  Peter,  do  go  on.  You'll 
never  have  it  done." 

Whereat  Peter  flapped  the  quilt  again  ;  and  — 

"  I  will  curl  my  toes  up.  That's  what  I  want  to 
do.  I  want  to  curl  'em  up ! "  said  Little  Child. 
And  now  the  sleepyhood  tears  were  very  near. 

"Goodness,"  said  Miggy,  Suddenly,  "to-morrow 
is  Sunday.  I'll  have  to  do  her  hair  up  for  curls. 
Peter ! "  she  cried,  "  stop  waving  that  quilt,  and 
tear  me  off  a  strip  of  that  white  lining  there." 

"  Yes,  Fit  have  curls,"  said  Little  Child,  unex- 
pectedly, "  because  that  is  so  becunning  to  me." 

But  she  was  very  sleepy,  and  when  Peter  had 
been  sent  for  the  brush  from  the  kitchen  shelf,  her 
head  was  on  Miggy's  shoulder,  and  Miggy  looked 
at  Peter  helplessly. 

"  Give  her  to  me,"  said  Peter,  and  took  the  child 
and  laid  the  kitten  at  large  upon  the  floor;  and 
then,  holding  Little  Child's  head  in  the  hollow  of 


216        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

his  arm,  he  sat  down  before  Miggy,  leaning  toward 
her,  and  all  the  child's  soft  brown  hair  lay  on  his 
sleeve. 

I  should  have  liked  to  watch  them  then.  And  I 
should  have  liked  Calliope  and  Mis'  Toplady  and 
my  neighbour  to  see  them  —  those  three  who  of  all 
the  village  best  understood  mystery.  I  know  that 
Peter  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  Miggy's  face  as  she 
brushed  and  wound  the  curls.  How  could  he?  — 
and  Miggy,  "sweet  as  boughs  of  May"  in  that 
white  frock,  her  look  all  motherly  intent  upon  her 
task.  She  was  very  deft,  and  she  had  that  fine 
mother-manner  of  caring  for  the  child  with  her 
whole  hand  instead  of  tipsifingers.  I  would  see  a 
woman  infinitely  delicate  in  the  touching  of  flowers 
or  tea-cups  or  needlework,  but  when  she  is  near  a 
child,  I  want  her  to  have  more  than  delicacy.  I  was 
amazed  at  Miggy's  gentleness  and  her  pretty  air  of 
accustomedness.  And  when  Little  Child  stirred, 
Miggy  went  off  into  some  improvised  song  about  a 
little  black  dog  that  got  struck  with  a  wagon  and 
went  Ki  —  yi  —  ki — yi  —  ad  infinitum,  and  Miggy 
seemed  to  me  to  have  quite  the  technical  mother-air 
of  tender  abstraction. 

"  How  dark  her  hair  is  growing,"  she  said. 

"It's  just  the  colour  of  yours,"  said  Peter,  "and 
the  little  curls  on  the  edges.  They're  like  yours, 
too." 


HOUSEHOLDRY  217 

"  My  hair  !  "  Miggy  said  deprecatingly.  "  You've 
got  rather  nice  hair,  Peter,  if  only  it  wouldn't  stick 
up  that  way  at  the  back." 

"  I  know  it  sticks  up,"  Peter  said  contritely.  "  I 
do  every  way  to  make  it  stay  down.  But  it 
won't." 

"It  makes  you  look  funny,"  observed  Miggy, 
frankly. 

"  Well,"  he  told  her, "  if  you  wouldn't  ever  make 
me  go  'way  from  you,  you  wouldn't  ever  need  to  see 
the  back  of  my  head." 

"  That  would  be  just  what  would  turn  your  head," 
she  put  it  positively.  "  Peter,  doesn't  your  arm 
ache,  holding  her  so  ? " 

He  looked  down  at  his  arm  to  see,  and,  "  I 
wouldn't  care  if  it  did,"  he  replied,  in  some  surprise. 
"No.  It  feels  good.  Oh,  Miggy  —  do  you  do 
this  every  night? " 

"  I  don't  always  curl  her  hair,"  said  Miggy,  "  but 
I  always  put  her  to  bed.  If  ever  Aunt  Effie  un- 
dresses her,  she  tells  her  she  may  die  before  morning, 
so  she'd  better  say  her  prayer,  pretty.  Goodness, 
she  hasn't  said  her  prayer  yet,  either." 

"  Isn't  she  too  sleepy  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

"  Yes,"  Miggy  answered ;  "  but  she  feels  bad  in 
the  morning  if  she  doesn't  say  it.  You  know  she 
thinks  she  says  her  prayer  to  mother,  and  that 
mother  waits  to  hear  her. 


2i8        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE    LOVE   STORIES 

Miggy  looked  up  fleetingly  at  her  mother's  pic- 
ture on  the  wall  —  one  of  those  pale  enlargements 
of  a  photograph  which  tell  you  definitely  that  the 
subject  is  dead. 

"  I  do'  want  any  other  curls  on  me,"  announced 
Little  Child,  suddenly. 

"Just  one  more,  dear,"  Miggy  told  her,  "and 
then  we're  through.  Turn  her  head  a  little,  Peter." 

"  No,"  said  Little  Child.     "Now  I'm  -all  curly." 

And,  "Yes,  Precious.  Be  still  on  Peter's  arm 
just  a  minute  more,"  said  Miggy  at  the  same  time. 

And,  "  If  you  say  anything  more,  I'll  kiss  you," 
said  Peter,  to  whom  it  might  concern. 

"  Kiss  me  ?  "  said  Little  Child.     "  I  won't  be." 

"Somebody's  got  to  be,"  said  Peter,  with  decision. 

"  Now,  our  prayer,"  ruled  Miggy  suddenly,  and 
rose.  "  Come,  dear." 

Peter  looked  up  in  Miggy's  face. 

"  Let  her  be  here,"  he  said.     "  Let  her  be  here." 

He  lifted  Little  Child  so  that  she  knelt,  and  her 
head  drooped  on  his  shoulder.  He  had  one  arm 
about  her  and  the  other  hand  on  the  pink,  upturned 
soles  of  her  feet.  The  child  put  out  one  hand  blindly 
for  Miggy's  hand.  So  Miggy  came  and  stood 
beside  Peter,  and  together  they  waited  for  the  little 
sleepy  voice. 

It  came  with  disconcerting  promptness. 

"Now — I — lay — me — down — to — sleep — for 


HOUSEHOLDRY  219 

— Jesus'  —  sake  —  Amen,"  prayed  Little  Child  in 
one  breath. 

"  No,  sweetheart,"  Miggy  remonstrated,  with  her 
alluring  emphasis  on  "  sweet."  "  Say  it  right,  dear." 

"Now  I  lay  me  —  is  Bless-your-Heart  sayin' 
hers  ?  "  demanded  Little  Child. 

"  Couldn't  you  get  along  without  her,  when 
you're  so  sleepy  ?  "  Miggy  coaxed. 

"  Mustn't  skip  nights,"  Little  Child  told  her. 
"Bless-your-Heart  might  die  before  morning." 

So  Miggy  found  Bless-your-Heart  under  the 
couch,  and  haled  her  forth,  and  laid  her  in  Little 
Child's  arms.  And  Peter  put  his  face  close,  close  to 
Little  Child's,  and  shut  his  eyes. 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord 
my  soul  to  keep,  If  I  should  die  before  I  wake,  I 
pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take  who'll  I  bless  to- 
night ? "  said  Little  Child. 

"  Aunt  Effie,"  Miggy  prompted. 

"Bless  Aunt  Effie,"  said  Little  Child,  "and 
Miggy  and  Bless-your-Heart  and  New  Auntie" 
(she  meant  me.  Think  of  her  meaning  me  !)  "  and 
the  man  that  gave  me  the  peanuts,  and  bless  Stella's 
party  and  ,  make  'em  have  ice-cream,  and  bless  my 
new  shoes  and  my  sore  finger.  For  Jesus'  sake, 
Amen." 

Little  Child  drew  a  long  breath  and  stirred  to 
get  down,  but  Peter  did  not  move. 


220        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  And  bless  Peter,"  Miggy  said. 

"  No,"  said  Little  Child,  "  He  needn't.  Peter's 
nice  'miff." 

Peter  got  to  his  feet  with  Little  Child  in  his  arms, 
and  his  face  was  glowing,  and  he  looked  at  Miggy 
as  if  she  were  what  he  meant  whenever  he  said 
"  universe."  But  Miggy  had  gone  to  the  couch, 
and  was  smoothing  the  quilt  that  Peter  had  wrinkled 
in  all  directions,  and  patting  the  pillow  that  Peter 
had  kneaded  into  a  hard  ball. 

"  You  lay  her  down,"  she  said. 

Peter  did  so,  setting  the  kitten  on  the  floor,  and 
then  bending  low  over  the  couch,  looking  in  the 
upturned  face  as  the  little  dark  head  touched  the 
pillow  and  sought  its  ease,  and  her  hand  fell  from 
where  it  had  rested  on  his  shoulder.  And  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her  cheek  more  gently  than  he 
had  ever  done  anything. 

"  I  want  my  drink  o'  water,"  said  Little  Child, 
and  opened  her  eyes ;  and  now  from  the  couch  she 
could  see  me.  "  Tell  me  a  story,"  she  commanded 
me,  drowsily. 

I  did  not  go  to  her,  for  who  am  I  that  I  should 
have  broken  that  trio  ?  But  when  Miggy  and 
Peter  took  the  lamp  and  went  away  to  the  kitchen 
for  the  drink  of  water  and  for  some  simple  remedy 
for  the  fever  which  Miggy  had  noted  or  fancied, 
I  sat  beside  Little  Child  and  said  over  something 


HOUSEHOLDRY  221 

that  had   been  persistently  in    my  mind  as  I  had 
watched  Miggy  with  her :  — 

"  I  like  to  stand  in  this  great  air 
And  see  the  sun  go  down  ; 
It  shows  me  a  bright  veil  to  wear 
And  such  a  pretty  gown. 
Oh,  I  can  see  a  playmate  there 
Far  up  in  Splendour  Town  ! " 

Little  Child  began  it  with  me,  but  her  voice 
trailed  away.  I  thought  that  in  the  darkness  were 
many  gentle  presences — Little  Child's  tender  breath- 
ing, the  brushing  wings  of  hurrying  dreams,  and 
perhaps  that  other  — "  not  quite  my  sister,"  but  a 
shadowy  little  Margaret. 

Afterward,  Miggy  and  Peter  and  I  sat  together 
for  a  little  while,  but  Peter  had  fallen  in  a  silence. 
And  presently  Aunt  Effie  came  home,  and  on  the 
porch  —  which  seemed  not  yet  to  have  escaped  — 
she  told  us  about  having  broken  hep  needle  and  left 
her  shears  at  her  neighbour's.  While  Peter  ran  over 
to  Mis'  Holcomb's  for  the  shears,  I  had  a  word  with 
Miggy. 

"  Miggy  !  "  I  Said3  "  don't  you  see  ? " 

"  See  what  ?  "  she  wanted  to  know,  perversely. 

"  How  Peter  would  love  to  have  Little  Child, 
too  ? "  I  said. 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  was  silent ;  and  laughed 
again. 


222        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  He  was  funny  and  nice,"  she  admitted ;  "  and 
wasn't  Little  Child  funny  not  to  bless  him  ? " 

"  Because  he  is  nice  enough,"  I  reminded  her. 

Miggy  laughed  once  more  —  I  had  never  seen 
her  in  so  tender  and  feminine  a  mood.  And  this 
may  have  been  partly  due  to  the  new  frock,  though 
I  cannot  think  that  it  was  entirely  this.  But  ab- 
ruptly she  shook  her  head. 

"  Peter's  father  went  by  just  before  you  came  in," 
she  said.  "  He  —  couldn't  hardly  walk.  What  if 
I  was  there  to  get  supper  for  him  when  he  got 
home?  I  never  could  —  I  never  could  .  .  ." 

By  the  time  Peter  and  I  were  out  alone  on 
Daphne  Street  again,  the  sitting  rooms  in  all  the 
houses  were  dark,  with  a  look  of  locked  front  doors 
—  as  if  each  house  had  set  its  lips  together  with, 
"  We  are  a  home  and  you  are  not." 

Peter  looked  out  on  all  this  palpable  house- 
holdry. 

"See  the  lights  upstairs,"  he  said;  "everybody's 
up  there,  hearing  their  prayers  and  giving  'em  fever 
medicine.  Yes,  sir,  Great  Scott !  Shorty  Burns 
and  Tony  Thomas  and  Dutchie  Wade  —  they  ain't 
good  for  a  thing  in  the  cannery.  And  yet  they 
know  .  ." 


XIV 

POSTMARKS 

BETWEEN  church  service  and  Sunday  School  we  of 
the  First  church  have  so  many  things  to  attend  to 
that  no  one  can  spare  a  moment. 

"  Reverent  things,  not  secular,"  Calliope  explains, 
"plannin'  for  church  chicken-pie  suppers  an'  Christ- 
mas bazaars  and  like  that ;  but  not  a  word  about  a 
picnic,  not  even  if  they  was  to  be  one  o'  Monday 
sunrise." 

To  be  sure,  this  habit  of  ours  occasionally  causes 
a  contretemps.  As  when  one  morning  Mis'  Toplady 
arrived  late  and,  in  a  flurry,  essayed  to  send  up  to 
the  pulpit  by  the  sexton  a  Missionary  meeting  notice 
to  be  read.  Into  this  notice  the  minister  plunged 
without  the  precaution  of  first  examining  it,  and  so 
delivered  aloud :  — 

"  See  Mis'  Sykes  about  bringing  wiping  cloths  and  dish-rags. 
*'  See  Abigail  about  enough  forks  for  her  table. 
"  Look  around  for  my  rubbers. 
"Dun  Mame  Holcomb  for  her  twenty  cents." 

223 


224        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Not  until  he  reached  the  fourth  item  was  the  min- 
ister stopped  by  the  agonized  rustle  in  a  congrega- 
tion that  had  easily  recognized  Mis'  Toplady's 
"between  services"  list  of  reminder,  the  notice  of  the 
forthcoming  meeting  being  safe  in  her  hymn  book. 

Still  we  persist  in  our  Sabbath  conferences  when 
"  everybody  is  there  where  you  want  'em  an*  every- 
body can  see  everybody  an*  no  time  lost  an*  no 
party  line  listening";  and  it  is  then  that  those  who 
have  been  for  some  time  away  from  the  village 
receive  their  warmest  welcome.  I  am  not  certain 
that  the  "I  must  get  down  to  church  and  see  every- 
body" of  a  returned  neighbour  does  not  hold  in  fair 
measure  the  principles  of  family  hood  and  of  Christ's 
persuadings  to  this  deep  comradeship. 

It  was  in  this  time  after  church  that  we  welcomed 
Calliope  one  August  Sunday  when  she  had  unex- 
pectedly come  down  from  town  on  the  Saturday 
night.  And  later,  when  the  Sunday-school  bell  had 
rung,  I  waited  with  her  in  the  church  while  she 
looked  up  her  Bible,  left  somewhere  in  the  pews. 
When  she  had  found  it,  she  opened  it  in  a  manner 
of  eager  haste,  and  I  inadvertently  saw  pasted  to  the 
inside  cover  a  sealed  letter,  superscription  down,  for 
whose  safety  she  had  been  concerned.  I  had  asked 
her  to  dine  with  me,  and  as  we  walked  home  to- 
gether she  told  me  about  the  letter  and  what  its 
sealed  presence  in  her  Bible  meant. 


POSTMARKS  225 

"  I  ain't  ever  read  it,"  Calliope  explained  to  me 
wistfully.  "  Every  one  o'  the  Ladies'  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Circle  has  got  one,  an'  none  of  us  has  ever 
read  'em.  It  ain't  my  letter,  so  to  say.  It's  one  o' 
the  Jem  Pitlaw  collection.  The  postmark,"  she  im- 
parted, looking  up  at  me  proudly,  "  is  Bombay, 
India." 

At  my  question  about  the  Jem  Pitlaw  collection 
she  laughed  deprecatingly,  and  then  she  sighed. 
("Ain't  it  nice,"  she  had  once  said  to  me,  "your 
laughs  hev  a  sigh  for  a  linin',  an'  sighs  can  hev 
laughin'  for  trimmin'.  Only  trouble  is,  most  folks 
want  to  line  with  trimmin's,  an'  they  ain't  rill  dur- 
able, used  that  way.") 

"Jem  Pitlaw,"  Calliope  told  me  now,  "used  to 
be  schoolmaster  here  —  the  kind  that  comes  from 
Away  an'  is  terrible  looked  up  to  on  that  account, 
but  Jem  deserved  it.  He  knew  all  there  was  to 
know,  an'  yet  he  thought  we  knew  some  little 
things,  too.  We  was  all  rill  fond  of  him,  though 
he  kept  to  himself,  an'  never  seemed  to  want  to  fall 
in  love,  an'  not  many  of  us  knew  him  well  enough 
to  talk  to  at  all  familiar.  But  when  he  went  off 
West  on  a  vacation,  an'  didn't  come  back,  an'  never 
come  back,  an'  then  died,  Friendship  Village  mourned 
for  him, —  sincere,  though  no  crape,  —  an'  missed  him 
enormous. 

"He'd  had  a  room  at  Postmaster  Sykes's  —  that 
Q 


226        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

was  when  he  was  postmaster  first  an'  they  was  still 
humble  an*  not  above  the  honest  penny.  An*  Jem 
Pitlaw  left  two  trunks  an*  a  sealed  box  to  their 
house.  An*  when  he  didn't  come  back  in  two 
years,  Silas  Sykes  moved  the  things  out  of  the 
spare  room  over  to  the  post-office  store  loft.  An* 
there  they  set,  three  years  on  end,  till  we  got  word 
Jem  was  dead  —  the  very  week  o'  the  Ladies'  For- 
eign Missionary  Circle's  Ten  Cent  Tropical  Fete. 
Though,  rilly,  the  Tropical  Fete  wasn't  what  you 
might  say  c  tropical.'  It  was  held  on  the  seven- 
teenth of  January,  an'  that  night  the  thermometer 
was  twenty-four  degrees  below  on  the  bank  corner. 
Nor  it  wasn't  rilly  what  you  might  say  a  Fete,  either. 
But  none  o'  the  Circle  regretted  them  lacks.  A  lack 
is  as  good  as  a  gift,  sometimes. 

"  We'd  started  the  Foreign  Missionary  Circle 
through  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  gettin'  her  palm. 
I  donno  what  there  is  about  palms,  but  you  know 
the  very  name  makes  some  folks  think  thoughts 
'way  outside  their  heads,  an'  not  just  stuffy-up  in- 
side their  own  brains.  When  I  hear  c  palm,'  I  sort 
o'  feel  like  my  i-dees  got  kind  o'  wordy  wings  an' 
just  went  it  without  me.  An'  that  was  the  way  with 
more  than  me,  I  found  out.  Nobody  in  Friendship 
Village  hed  a  palm,  but  we'd  all  seen  pictures  an' 
hankered  —  like  you  do.  An'  all  of  a  sudden  Mis' 
Sykes  got  one,  like  she  gets  her  new  hat,  sometimes, 


POSTMARKS  227 

without  a  soul  knowin'  she's  thinkin'  c  hat '  till  she 
flams  out  in  it.  Givin'  surprise  is  breath  an*  bread 
to  that  woman.  She  unpacked  the  palm  in  the 
kitchen,  an'  telephoned  around,  an'  we  all  went  over 
just  as  we  was  an'  set  down  there  an'  looked  at  it 
an'  thought  '  Palm ' !  You  can't  realize  how  we 
felt,  all  of  us,  if  you  ain't  lived  all  your  life  with 
nothin'  but  begonias  an'  fuchsias  from  November 
to  April,  an'  sometimes  into  May.  But  we  was  all 
mixed  up  about  'em,  now  we  see  one.  Some  hed 
heard  dates  grew  on  palms.  Others  would  have  it 
it  was  cocoanuts.  Still  more  said  they  was  natives 
of  the  equator,  an'  give  nothin'  but  shade.  So  it 
went.  But  after  a  while  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady 
spoke  up  with  that  way  o'  comin'  downstairs  on 
her  words  an'  rilly  gettin'  to  a  landin' :  — 

" c  They's  quite  a  number  o'  things/  she  says, 
c  that  I  want  to  do  so  much  it  seems  like  I  can't  die 
without  doin'  'em.  But  I  guess  prob'ly  I  will  die 
without.  Folks  seems  to  drop  off  leavin'  lots  of 
doin's  undone.  An'  one  o'  my  worst  is,  I  want  to 
see  palm  trees  growin'  in  hot  lands  —  big  spiky 
leaves  pointin'  into  the  blue  sky  like  fury.  'Seems 
if  I  could  do  that,'  s'she,  c  I'd  take  in  one  long 
breath  that'd  make  me  all  lungs  an'  float  me  up  an' 
off.' 

"  We  all  laughed,  but  we  knew  what  she  meant 
well  enough,  because  we  all  felt  the  same  way.  I 


228        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

think  most  North  folks  do  —  like  they  was  cocoa- 
nuts  an'  dates  in  our  actions,  'way  back.  An*  so 
we  was  all  ready  for  Mis'  Toplady's  idee  when  it 
come  —  which  is  the  most  any  idee  can  expect:  — 

CfCI  tell  you  what,'  s'she,  'le's  hev  a  Ladies' 
Foreign  Missionary  Circle,  an'  get  read  up  on  them 
tropical  countries.  The  only  thing  I  really  know 
about  the  tropics  is  what  comes  to  me  unbeknownst 
when  I  smell  my  tea  rose.  I've  always  been 
meanin'  to  take  an  interest  in  missions,'  says  she. 

"  So  we  started  it,  then  an'  there,  an'  she  an'  I 
was  the  committee  to  draw  out  a  constitution  an' 
decide  what  officers  should  be  elected  an'  do  the 
general  creatin'.  We  made  it  up  that  Mis'  Sykes 
should  be  the  president  —  that  woman  is  a  born 
leader,  and,  as  a  leader,  you  can  depend  on  the  very 
back  of  her  head.  An'  at  last  we  went  off  to  the 
minister  that  then  was  to  ask  him  what  to  take  up. 

"  c  M  ost  laudable,'  s'he,  when  he'd  heard.  <  Well, 
now,  what  country  is  it  you're  most  interested  in  ? ' 
he  says.  c  Some  island  of  the  sea,  I  s'pose  ? '  he 
asks,  bright. 

" c  We're  interested  in  palms/  Mis'  Timothy 
Toplady  explained  it  to  him  frank,  c  an'  we  want  to 
study  about  the  missionaries  in  some  country  where 
they's  dates  an'  cocoanuts  an  oaseses.' 

"  He  smiled  at  that,  sweet  an'  deep  —  I  know  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  he  knew  more  about  what  we 


POSTMARKS  229 

wanted  than  we  knew  ourselves.  Because  they's 
some  ministers  that  understands  that  Christianity 
ain't  all  in  theibottle  labelled  with  it.  Some  of  it  is 
labelled  c  ointment/  an'  some  c  perfume/  an'  some 
just  plain  kitchen  flavourin'.  An'  a  good  deal  of  it 
ain't  labelled  at  all. 

"  I  forget  what  country  it  was  we  did  study.  But 
they  was  nine  to  ten  of  us,  an'  we  met  every  week, 
an'  I  tell  you  the  time  wa'n't  wasted.  We  took 
things  in  lavish.  I  know  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was- 
Mame-Bliss  said  that  after  belongin'  to  the  Ladies' 
Foreign  Missionary  Circle  she  could  never  feel  the 
same  absent-minded  sensation  again  when  she  dusted 
her  parlour  shells.  An'  Mis'  Toplady  said  when  she 
opened  her  kitchen  cabinet  an'  smelt  the  cinnamon 
an'  allspice  out  o'  the  perforated  tops,  'most  always, 
no  matter  how  mad  she  was,  she  broke  out  in  a 
hymn,  like  c  When  All  Thy  Mercies,'  sheer  through 
knowin'  how  allspice  was  born  of  God  an'  not  made 
of  man.  An'  Mis'  Sykes  said  when  she  read  her 
Bible,  an'  it  talked  about  India's  coral  strand,  it 
seemed  like,  through  knowin'  what  a  reef  was,  she 
was  right  there  on  one,  with  her  Lord.  I  felt  the 
same  way,  too  —  though  I'd  always  felt  the  same 
way,  for  that  matter  —  I  always  did  tip  vanilla  on 
my  handkerchief  an'  pretend  it  was  flowers  an'  that 
I'd  gone  down  South  for  the  cold  months.  An'  it 
got  so  that  when  the  minister  give  out  a  text  that 


230        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

had  geography  in  it,  like  the  Red  Sea,  or  Beer-elim, 
or  ca  place  called  The  Fair  Haven/  the  Ladies 
Foreign  Missionary  Circle  would  look  round  in  our 
seats  an'  nod  to  each  other,  without  it  showing  be- 
cause we  knew  that  we  knew,  extra  special,  just  what 
God  was  talkin'  about.  I  tell  you,  knowledge  makes 
you  alive  at  places  where  you  didn't  know  there  was 
such  a  place. 

"In  five  months'  time  we  felt  we  owed  so  much 
to  the  Ladies'  Foreign  Missionary  Circle  that  it  was 
Mis'  Sykes  suggested  we  give  the  Ten  Cent  Tropi- 
cal Fete,  an'  earn  five  dollars  or  so  for  missions. 

" c  We  know  a  great  deal  about  the  tropics  now/ 
she  says, ( an'  I  propose  we  earn  a  missionary  thank- 
offering.  Coral  an'  cocoanuts  an'  dates  an'  spices 
isn't  all  the  Lord  is  interested  in,  by  any  means/ 
s'she.  c  An'  the  winter  is  the  time  to  give  a  tropic 
fete,  when  folks  are  thinkin'  about  warm  things 
natural.' 

"  We  voted  to  hev  the  fete  to  Mis'  Sykes's  be- 
cause it  was  too  cold  to  carry  the  palm  out.  We 
went  into  it  quite  extensive  —  figs  an'  dates  an' 
bananas  an'  ginger  for  refreshments,  an'  little  nigger 
dolls  for  souvenirs,  an'  like  that.  It  was  quite  a 
novel  thing  for  Friendship,  an'  everybody  was  takin' 
an  interest  an'  offerin'  to  lend  Japanese  umbrellas 
an'  Indian  baskets  an'  books  on  the  South  Sea,  an' 
a  bamboo  chair  with  an  elephant  crocheted  in  the 


POSTMARKS  231 

tidy.  An'  then,  bein'  as  happenings  always  crowd 
along  in  flocks,  what  come  that  very  week  o'  the 
fete  but  a  letter  from  an  old  aunt  of  Jem  Pitlaw's, 
out  West.  An'  if  Jem  hadn't  been  dead  almost 
ever  since  he  left  Friendship  !  an'  the  aunt  wrote 
that  we  should  sell  his  things  to  pay  for  keepin'  'em, 
as  she  was  too  poor  to  send  for  'em  an'  hadn't  any 
room  if  she  wasn't. 

"  I  donno  whether  you  know  what  rill  excitement 
is,  but  if  you  don't,  you'd  ought  to  drop  two  locked 
trunks  an'  a  sealed  box  into  a  town  the  size  o'  Friend- 
ship Village,  an'  leave  'em  there  goin'  on  five  years, 
an'  then  die  an'  let  'em  be  sold.  That'll  show  you 
what  a  pitch  true  interest  can  get  het  up  to.  All  of  a 
sudden  the  Tropical  Fete  was  no  more  account  than 
the  telephone  ringin'  when  a  circus  procession  is 
going  by.  Some  o'  the  Ladies'  Missionary  was  rill 
indignant,  an'  said  we'd  ought  to  sue  for  repairin' 
rights,  same  as  when  you're  interfered  with  in  busi- 
ness. Mis'  Sykes,  she  done  her  able  best,  too,  but 
nothin'  would  do  Silas  but  he  must  offer  them  things 
for  sale  on  the  instant.  c  The  time,'  s'he,  firm,  '  to 
do  a  thing  is  now,  while  the  interest  is  up.  An'  in 
this  country,'  s'he,  £  "  now "  don't  stay  "  now  " 
more'n  two  minutes  at  a  time/ 

"  So  he  offered  for  sale  the  contents  of  them  three 
things  —  the  two  trunks  an'  the  sealed  box — unsight, 
unseen,  on  the  day  before  the  Fete  was  to  be.  Only 


232        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

one  thing  interfered  with  the  cunsight,  unseen  '  busi- 
ness: the  sealed  box  had  got  damp  an*  broke  open, 
an'  what  was  inside  was  all  showin'. 

"  Mis'  Sykes  an'  I  saw  it  on  the  day  o'  the  sale. 
Most  o'  the  Circle  was  to  her  house  finishin'  up  the 
decorations  for  the  Fete  so's  to  leave  the  last  day 
clear  for  seein'  to  the  refreshments,  an'  her  an'  I  run 
over  to  the  post-office  store  for  some  odds  an'  ends. 
Silas  had  brought  the  two  trunks  an'  the  box  down 
from  the  loft  so  to  give  'em  some  advertisin'.  An' 
lookin'  in  the  corner  o'  the  broke  box  we  could  see, 
just  as  plain  as  plain,  was  letters.  Letters  in  bunches, 
all  tied  up,  an'  letters  laid  in  loose  —  they  must  'a' 
been  full  a  hundred  of  'em,  all  lookin'  mysterious  an* 
ready  to  tell  you  somethin',  like  letters  will.  I  know 
the  looks  o'  the  letters  sort  o'  went  to  my  head,  like 
the  news  of  Far  Off.  An'  I  hated  seein'  Jem's 
trunks  there,  with  his  initials  on,  appearin'  all  trust- 
in'  an'  as  if  they  thought  he  was  still  alive. 

"  But  that  wasn't  the  worst.  They  was  three 
strangers  there  in  the  store  —  travellin'  men  that  had 
just  come  in  on  the  Through,  an'  they  was  hangin' 
round  the  things  lookin'  at  'em,  as  if  they  had  the 
right  to.  This  town  ain't  very  much  on  the  buy, 
an'  we  don't  hev  many  strangers  here,  an'  we  ain't 
rill  used  to  'em.  An'  it  did  seem  too  bad,  I  know 
we  thought,  that  them  three  should  hev  happened  in 
on  the  day  of  a  private  Friendship  Village  sale  that 


POSTMARKS  233 

didn't  concern  nobody  else  but  one,  an1  him  dead. 
An*  we  felt  this  special  when  one  o'  the  men  took 
a-hold  of  a  bunch  o'  the  letters,  an*  we  could  see 
the  address  of  the  top  one,  to  Jem  Pitlaw,  wrote 
thin  an*  tiny-fine,  like  a  woman.  An*  at  that  Mis' 
Sykes  says  sharp  to  her  husband :  — 

" c  Silas  Sykes,  you  ain't  goin'  to  sell  them  letters  ? ' 
" c  Yes,  ma'am,  I  am/  Silas  snaps,  like  he  hed  a 
right  to  all  the  letters  on  earth,  beinj  he  was  post- 
master of  Friendship  Village.  c  Letters/  Silas  give 
out,  '  is  just  precisely  the  same  as  books,  only  they 
ain't  been  through  the  expense  of  printin'.  No  dif- 
fer'nce.  No  difFer'nce  ! ' — Silas  always  seems  to 
think  repeatin'  a  thing  over'll  get  him  somewheres, 
like  a  clock  retickin'  itself.  c  An'/  he  says, '  I'm  goin' 
to  sell  'em  for  what  they'll  bring,  same  as  the  rest  o' 
the  things,  an'  you  needn't  to  say  one  word.'  An' 
bein'  as  Silas  was  snappin',  not  only  as  a  postmaster 
but  as  a  husband,  Mis'  Sykes,  she  kep'  her  silence. 
Matrimony  an'  politics  both  in  one  man  is  too 
much  for  any  woman  to  face. 

"  Well,  we  two  went  back  to  Mis'  Sykes's  all  het 
up  an'  sad,  an'  told  the  Circle  about  Jem  Pitlaw's 
letters.  An'  we  all  stopped  decoratin'  an'  set  down 
just  where  we  was  an  talked  about  what  an  awful 
thing  it  seemed.  I  donno  as  you'll  sense  it  as  strong 
as  we  did.  It  was  more  a  feelin'  than  a  wordin'. 
Letters  —  bein'  sold  an'  read  out  loud  an'  gettin' 


234       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

known  about.  It  seemed  like  lookin'  in  somebody's 
purse  before  they're  dead. 

" c  I  should  of  thought/  Mis'  Sykes  says,  c  that 
Silas  regardin'  bein'  postmaster  as  a  sacred  office 
would  have  made  him  do  differ'nt.  An'  I  know 
he  talked  that  right  along  before  he  got  his  appoint- 
ment. "  Free  Private  Secretary  to  the  People,"  an' 
"  Trusted  Curator  of  Public  Communication,"  he 
put  it  when  he  was  goin'  around  with  his  petition,' 
says  she,  grievin'. 

£CCWell,'  says  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  —  I  rec'lect 
she  hed  been  puttin'  up  a  big  Japanese  umbrella, 
an'  she  looked  out  from  under  it  sort  o'  sweet  an' 
sincere  an'  dreamy —  c  you've  got  to  be  a  woman  an* 
you've  got  to  live  in  a  little  town  before  you  know 
what  a  letter  really  is.  I  don't  think  these  folks 
that  hev  lots  o'  mail  left  in  the  front  hall  in  the 
mornin'  —  an'  sometimes  get  one  that  same  after- 
noon —  knows  about  letters  at  all.  An'  I  don't 
believe  any  man  ever  knows,  sole  except  when  he's 
in  love.  To  sense  what  a  letter  is  you've  got  to  be 
a  woman  without  what-you-may-say  much  to  enjoy ; 
you've  got  to  hear  the  train  whistle  that  might  bring 
you  one ;  you've  got  to  calculate  how  long  it'll  take 
'em  to  distribute  the  mail,  an'  mebbe  hurry  to  get 
your  bread  mixed,  or  your  fried-cakes  out  o'  the 
lard,  or  your  cannin'  where  you  can  leave  it  —  an* 
then  go  change  your  shoes  an'  slip  on  another  skirt, 


POSTMARKS  235 

an'  poke  your  hair  up  under  your  hat  so's  it  won't 
show,  an'  go  down  to  the  post-office  in  the  hot  sun, 
an'  see  the  letter  through  the  glass,  there  in  your 
own  box,  waitin'  for  you.  That  minute,  when  your 
heart  comes  up  in  your  throat,  I  tell  you,  is  gettin' 
a  letter.' 

"  We  all  knew  this  is  so  —  every  one  of  us. 

"c  It's  just  like  that  when  you  write  'em,  only  felt 
differ' nt,'  says  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss. 
c  I  do  mine  to  my  sister  a  little  at  a  time  —  I  keep 
it  back  o'  the  clock  in  the  kitchen  an'  hide  the  pen- 
cil inside  the  clock  door,  so's  it  won't  walk  off,  the 
way  pencils  do  at  our  house.  An'  then,  right  in 
the  midst  of  things,  be  it  flour  or  be  it  suds,  I  can 
scratch  down  what  comes  in  my  head,  till  I  declare 
sometimes  I  can  hardly  mail  it  for  readin'  it  over 
an'  thinkin'  how  she'll  like  to  get  it.' 

" f  My,  my ! '  says  Mis'  Sykes,  reminiscent, 
c  'specially  since  Silas  has  been  postmaster  an'  we've 
had  so  much  to  do  with  other  people's  letters,  I've 
been  so  hungry  for  letters  of  my  own  that  I've 
wrote  for  samples.  I  can  do  that  with  a  level  con- 
science because,  after  all,  you  do  get  a  new  dress 
now  an'  then.  But  I  couldn't  answer  advertise- 
ments, same  as  some,  when  I  didn't  mean  true  — 
just  to  get  the  letters  back.  That  don't  seem  to 
me  rill  honest.' 

"  An'  then  I  owned  up. 


236        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

" c  Last  we.ek,  when  I  paid  my  taxes/  I  says,  c  I 
whipped  out  o'  the  clerk's  office  quick,  sole  so's 
he'd  hev  to  mail  me  my  tax  receipt.  But  he  didn't 
do  it.  He  sent  it  over  by  their  hired  girl  that 
noon.  I  love  letters  like  I  do  my  telephone  bell 
an'  my  friends,'  I  know  I  says. 

"  An'  there  was  all  that  hundred  letters  or  so  — 
letters  that  somebody  had  put  love  in  for  Jem  Pit- 
law,  an'  that  he'd  read  love  out  of  an'  saved  'em  — 
there  they  was  goin'  to  be  sold  for  all  Friendship 
Village  to  read,  includin'  some  that  hadn't  even 
known  him,  mebbe  more  than  to  speak  to. 

"  We  wasn't  quite  through  decoratin'  when  supper 
time  come,  so  we  stayed  on  to  Mis'  Sykes's  for  a 
pick-up  lunch,  et  in  the  kitchen,  an'  finished  up 
afterwards.  Most  of  'em  could  do  that  better  than 
they  could  leave  their  work  an'  come  down  again 
next  mornin'  —  men-folks  can  always  get  along  for 
supper,  bein'  it's  not  a  hot  meal. 

"  c  Ain't  it  wonderful,'  says  Mis'  Toplady,  thought- 
ful, c  here  we  are,  settin'  'round  the  kitchen  table  at 
Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes's  in  Friendship  Village.  An' 
away  off  in  Arabia  or  Asia  or  somewhere  that  I 
ain't  sure  they  is  any  such  place,  is  somebody  set- 
tin'  that  never  heard  of  us  nor  we  of  him,  an'  he's 
goin'  to  hev  our  five  dollars  from  the  Tropical  Fete 
to-morrow  night,  an'  put  it  to  work  doin'  good.' 

" '  It  makes  sort  of  a  connection,  don't  it  ? '  says 


POSTMARKS  237 

Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss.  c  There  they 
are  an'  here  we  are.  Ain't  it  strange  ?  'Seems  like 
our  doin'  this  makes  us  feel  nearer  to  them  places. 
I  donno  but  that/  says  she,  noddin',  c  is  the  start 
of  what  it  means  about  the  lion  and  the  lamb  layin* 
down  together.' 

" c  Oh  ! '  says  Mis'  Toplady,  f  I  tell  you  the 
Foreign  Missionary  Circle  has  been  next  best  to 
goin.  'Seems  sometimes  as  if  I've  'most  been 
somewheres  an'  seen  palms  a-growin'  an'  a-wavin'  an* 
a  red  sky  back.  Don't  it  to  you  ?  I've  dreamed  o' 
them  places  all  my  life,  an'  I  ain't  never  had  any- 
thing but  Friendship  Village,  an'  I  don't  know  now 
that  Arabia  an'  Asia  an*  India  is  rilly  fitted  in,  the 
way  they  look  on  the  map.  An'  so  with  some  more. 
But  if  so  be  they  are,  then,'  she  says,  c  we  owe  it  to 
the  Foreign  Missionary  Circle  that  we've  got  that 
far  towards  seein'  'em.' 

"  An'  we  all  Agreed,  warm,  excep*  Mis'  Sykes, 
who  was  the  hostess  an*  too  busy  to  talk  much; 
but  we  knew  how  she  felt.  An'  we  said  some  more 
about  how  wonderful  things  are,  there  in  Mis'  Sykes's 
kitchen  while  we  et. 

"  Well,  when  we  got  done  decoratin*  after  supper, 
we  all  walked  over  to  the  post-office  store  to  the 
sale  —  the  whole  Circle  of  us.  Because,  of  course,  if 
the  letters  was  to  be  sold  there  wasn't  any  harm  in 
seein'  who  got  'em,  an'  in  knowin'  just  how  mean 


238        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

who  was.  Then,  too,  we  was  interested  in  what  was 
in  the  two  trunks.  We  was  quite  early  —  early 
enough  to  set  along  on  the  front  rows  of  breakfast- 
food  boxes  that  was  fixed  ready.  An*  in  the  very 
frontmost  one  was  Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mis'  Toplady  an' 
Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  an'  me. 

"  But  we  see,  first  thing  when  we  got  into  the 
store,  that  they  was  strangers  present.  The  three 
travellin'  men  that  Mis'  Sykes  an'  I  had  noticed  that 
afternoon  was  still  in  town,  of  course,  an'  there  they 
was  to  the  sale,  loungin'  along  on  the  counter  each 
side  o'  the  cheese.  We  couldn't  bear  their  bein' 
there.  It  was  our  sale,  an'  they  wasn't  rill  sure  to 
understand.  To  us  Mr.  Pitlaw  hed  been  Mr.  Pit- 
law.  To  them  he  was  just  somebody  that  hed  been 
somebody.  I  didn't  like  it,  nor  they  didn't  none  o' 
the  Ladies'  Missionary  like  it.  We  all  looked  at 
each  other  an'  nodded  without  it  showin',  like  we  do,, 
an'  we  could  see  we  all  felt  the  same. 

"Silas  was  goin'  to  officiate  himself — that  man 
has  got  the  idee  it's  the  whistle  that  runs  the  boat. 
They  had  persuaded  him  to  open  the  trunks  an'  sell 
the  things  off  piecemeal,  an'  he  see  that  was  rilly  the 
only  way  to  do  it.  So  when  the  time  come  he  broke 
open  the  two  trunks  an'  he  wouldn't  let  anybody 
touch  hasp  or  strap  or  hammer  but  himself.  It 
made  me  sort  of  sick  to  see  even  the  trunk  things  of 
Mr.  Pitlaw's  come  out  —  a  pepper  an'  salt  suit,  a 


POSTMARKS  239 

pair  of  new  suspenders,  a  collar  an'  cuff  case  •*—  the 
kind  that  you'd  recognize  was  a  Christmas  present ; 
a  nice  brush  an'  comb  he'd  kept  for  best  an*  never 
used,  a  cake  of  pretty-paper  soap  he'd  never  opened, 
a  bunch  o'  keys,  an'  like  that.  You  know  how  it 
makes  you  feel  to  unpack  even  your  own  things  that 
have  been  put  away  a  good  while ;  it's  like  thinkin' 
over  forgot  thoughts.  Well,  an'  this  was  worse. 
Jem  Pitlaw,  that  none  of  us  had  known  well  enough 
to  mention  familiar  things  to,  was  dead  —  he  was 
dead ;  an'  here  we  were,  lookin'  on  an'  seein'  the 
things  that  was  never  out  of  his  room  before,  an* 
that  he'd  put  in  there,  neat  an*  nice,  five  years 
back,  to  be  took  out,  he  thought,  in  a  few  weeks. 
Quite  a  lot  of  us  felt  delicate,  but  some  got  be- 
hind the  delicate  idee  an*  made  it  an  excuse  for 
not  buyin'  much.  They's  all  kinds  to  a  sale  — 
did  you  ever  notice  ?  Timothy  Toplady,  for  in- 
stance —  I  donno  but  he's  all  kinds  in  his  single 
self.  'Seems  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  bid  on  a 
thing  but  Jem  Pitlaw's  keys. 

" (  Of  course  nobody  knows  what  they'll  fit/  says 
he,  disparaging  c  so  to  buy  'em  don't  seem  like  bein' 
too  familiar  with  Mr..  Pitlaw/  s'he,  rill  pleased  with 
himself. 

"But  Mis'  Sykes  whispers  to  me:  — 
" c  Them    keys'll    go    dirt    cheap,    an'    Timothy 
knows  it,   an'  a  strange    key  may  come  in  handy 


240        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

any  minute.  Timothy's  reasons  never  whip  to  a 
froth/  s'she,  cold. 

"  But  I  guess  she  was  over-critical  because  of 
gettin'  more  fidgety,  like  we  all  did,  the  nearer  Silas 
got  to  the  letters.  He  hed  left  the  letters  till  the 
last.  An*  what  with  folks  peekin'  in  the  box  since 
he'd  brought  it  down,  an'  what  with  handlin'  what 
was  ready  to  spill  out,  most  of  'em  by  then  was  in 
plain  sight.  An'  there  I  se.e  more  o'  them  same 
ones  —  little  thin  writin',  like  a  woman's.  We  'most 
all  noticed  it.  An'  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off  of 
'em.  'Seemed  like  she  might  be  somebody  with 
soft  ways  that  ought  to  be  there,  savin'  the  letters, 
wardin'  off  the  heartache  for  Mr.  Pitlaw  an'  mebbe 
one  for  herself. 

"  An*  right  while  I  was  lookin'  Silas  turned  to  the 
box  and  cleared  his  throat,  important  as  if  he  was 
the  whistle  for  New  York  City,  an'  he  lifted  up  the 
bunch  of  the  letters  that  had  the  little  fine  writin'  on 
top,  just  the  way  Mr.  Pitlaw  had  tied  'em  up  with 
common  string. 

" c  Oh  ! '  says  Mis'  Toplady  and  Mis'  Sykes,  each 
side  of  me,  the  one  c  oh  ! '  strong  an'  the  other  low, 
but  both  c  oh's '  meanin'  the  same  thing. 

" c  Now,  what,'  says  Silas,  brisk,  c  am  I  bid  for 
this  package  of  nice  letters  here  ?  Good  clear  writin', 
all  in  strong  condition,  an'  no  holes  in,  just  as  firm 
an'  fresh,'  s'he,  c  as  the  day  they  was  dropped  into 


POSTMARKS  241 

the  mail.  What  am  I  bid  for  'em  ? '  he  asks,  his 
eyebrows  rill  expectant. 

"  Not  one  of  the  travellin'  men  had  bid  a  thing. 
They  had  sat  still,  just  merely  loungin'  each  side  the 
cheese,  laughin'  some,  like  men  will,  among  each 
other,  but  not  carin'  to  take  any  part,  an*  we  ladies 
felt  rill  glad  o'  that.  But  all  of  a  sudden,  when 
Silas  put  up  the  bunch  o'  letters,  them  three  men 
woke  up,  an*  we  see  like  lightnin'  that  this  was  what 
they  hed  been  waitin*  for. 

" c  Twenty-five  cents  ! '  bids  one  of  'em,  decisive. 

"  There  was  a  movement  of  horror  spread  around 
the  Missionary  Circle  at  the  words.  Sometimes  it's 
bad  enough  to  hev  one  thing  happen,  but  often  it's 
worse  to  hev  another  occur.  Even  Silas  looked  a 
little  doubtful,  but  to  Silas  the  main  chance  is  al- 
ways the  main  thing,  an'  instantly  he  sec  that  these 
men,  if  they  got  in  the  spirit  of  it,  would  run  them 
letters  up  rill  high  just  for  the  fun  of  it.  An'  Silas 
was  like  some  are :  he  felt  that  money  is  money. 

"  So  what  did  he  do  but  begin  cryin'  the  goods  up 
higher  —  holdin'  the  letters  in  his  hands,  that  little, 
thin  writin'  lookin'  like  it  was  askin'  somethin'. 

" c  Here  we  hev  letters,'  says  Silas,  c  letters  from 
Away.  Not  just  business  letters,  to  judge  by  the 
envelopes  —  an'  I  allow,  gentlemen,'  says  Silas,  face- 
tious, 'that,  bein'  postmaster  of  Friendship  Village, 
I'm  as  good  a  judge  of  letters  as  there  is  a-goin'. 


242        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Here  we  hev  some  intimate  personal  letters  offered 
for  sale  legitimate  by  their  heiress.  What  am  I  bid  ? ' 
asks  he. 

" c Thirty-five  cents  ! ' 

"  c  Fifty  cents  ! '  says  the  other  two  travellin'  gen- 
tlemen, quick  an*  in  turn. 

" c  Seventy-five  cents  ! '  cries  out  the  first,  gettin' 
in  earnest  —  though  they  was  all  laughin'  at  hevin* 
somethin'  inspirin'  to  do. 

"  But  Silas  merely  caught  a-hold  of  the  mood  they 
was  in,  crafty,  as  if  he'd  been  gettin'  the  signers  to 
his  petition  while  they  was  feelin'  good. 

" c  One  moment,  gentlemen  ! '  s'he.  c  Do  you 
know  what  you're  biddin'  on  ?  I  ain't  told  you  the 
half  yet/  s'he.  <  I  ain't  told  you,'  s'he,  c  where 
these  letters  come  from.' 

"  With  that  he  hitches  his  glasses  an'  looked  at 
the  postmarks.  An'  he  read  'em  off.  Oh,  an' 
what  do  you  guess  them  postmarks  was  ?  I'll  never 
forget  the  feelin'  that  come  over  me  when  I  heard 
what  he  was  sayin',  turnin'  back  in  under  the  string 
to  see.  For  the  stamps  on  the  letters  was  foreign 
stamps.  The  postmarks  was  foreign  postmarks. 
An'  what  Silas  read  off  was :  Bombay,  Calcutta, 
Delhi,  Singapore  —  oh,  I  can't  begin  to  remember 
all  the  names  nor  to  pronounce  'em,  but  I  think 
they  was  all  in  India,  or  leastwise  in  Asia.  Think 
of  it !  in  Asia,  that  none  of  the  Ladies'  Foreign 


POSTMARKS  243 

Missionary  Circle  bed  been  sure  there  was  such  a 
place. 

"  I  know  how  we  all  looked  around  at  each  other 
sudden,  with  the  same  little  jump  in  the  chest  as 
when  we  remember  we've  got  bread  in  the  oven  past 
the  three-quarters,  or  when  we've  left  the  preserves 
on  the  blaze  while  we've  done  somethin'  else  an* 
think  it's  burnin',  or  when  we've  cut  out  both 
sleeves  for  one  arm  an'  ain't  got  any  more  cloth. 
I  mean  it  was  that  intimate,  personal  jump,  like 
when  awful,  first-person  things  have  happened. 
An'  I  tell  you  what,  when  the  Ladies'  Missionary 
feels  a  thing,  they  feel  it  strong  an'  they  act  it  sud- 
den. It's  our  way,  as  a  Circle.  An'  in  that  look 
that  went  round  among  us  there  was  hid  the  nod 
that  knows  what  each  other  means. 

"  (  One  dollar! '  shouts  one  o'  the  travellin'  men. 

"  An'  with  that  we  all  turned,  like  one  solid  hu- 
man being,  straight  towards  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes, 
that  was  our  president  an'  a  born  leader  besides,  an' 
the  way  we  looked  at  her  resembled  a  vote. 

"  Mis'  Sykes  stood  up,  grave  an'  scairt,  though 
not  to  show.  An'  we  was  sure  she'd  do  the  right 
thing,  though  we  didn't  know  what  the  right  thing 
was;  but  we  felt  confidence,  I  know,  in  the  very 
pattern  on  the  back  of  her  shawl.  An'  she  says, 
clear:  — 

" c  I'd  like  to  be  understood  to  bid  for  the  whole 


244       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

box  o'  Mr.  Pitlaw's  letters,  includin'  the  bunch 
that's  up.  An'  I  bid  five  dollars/ 

"  Of  course  we  all  knew  in  a  minute  what  that 
meant:  Mis'  Sykes  was  biddin'  with  the  proceeds 
of  the  Ten  Cent  Tropical  Fete  that  was  to  be.  But 
we  see,  too,  that  this  was  a  missionary  cause  if  there 
ever  was  one,  an*  they  waVt  one  of  us  that  thought 
it  irregular,  or  grudged  it,  or  looked  behind. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  how  much  five 
dollars  rilly  is  —  like  you  sense  it  when  you've  spoke 
it  to  a  sale,  or  put  it  on  a  subscription  paper  in 
Friendship.  There  wasn't  a  sound  in  that  store, 
everybody  was  so  dumfounded.  But  none  was  so 
much  as  Silas  Sykes.  Silas  was  so  surprised  that 
he  forgot  that  he  was  in  public. 

" c  My  King ! '  says  he,  unexpected  to  himself. 
c  What  you  say  in',  Huldy?  You  ain't  biddin'  that 
out  o'  your  allowance,  be  you? '  says  he.  Silas  likes 
big  words  in  the  home. 

" c  No,  sir,'  says  she,  crisp,  back, c  I  ain't.  I  can't 
do  miracles  out  of  nothin'.  But  I  bid,  an*  you'll 
get  your  money,  Silas.  An'  I  may  as  well  take  the 
letters  now.' 

"  With  that  she  rose  up  an'  spread  out  her  shawl 
almost  broodin',  an'  gathered  that  box  o'  Jem  Pit- 
law's  into  her  two  arms.  An'  with  one  motion  all 
the  rest  o'  the  Ladies'  Missionary  got  up  behind  her 
an'  stalked  out  of  the  store,  like  a  big  bid  is  sole  all 


POSTMARKS  245 

there  is  to  an  auction.  An'  they  let  us  go.  Why, 
there  wasn't  another  thing  for  Silas  Sykes  to  do  but 
let  be  as  was.  Them  three  men  over  by  the  cheese 
just  laughed,  an'  said  out  somethin'  about  no  gentle- 
man outbiddin'  a  lady,  an'  shut  up,  beat,  but  pre- 
tendin'  to  give  in,  like  some  will. 

"Just  before  we  all  got  to  the  door  we  heard 
somebody's  feet  come  down  off'n  a  cracker-barrel 
or  somethin',  an'  Timothy  Toplady's  voice  after  us, 
shrill-high  an'  nervous  :  — 

" c  Amanda,'  s'he,  c  you  ain't  calculatin'  to  help 
back  up  this  tomfoolishness,  I  hope  ? ' 

"An'  Mis'  Amanda  says  at  him,  over  her  shoulder: 

cc  c  If  I  was,  that'd  be  between  my  hens  an'  me, 
Timothy  Toplady,'  says  she. 

"An'  the  store  door  shut  behind  us — not  mad,  I 
remember,  but  gentle,  like  cAmen.' 

"  We  took  the  letters  straight  to  Mis'  Sykes's  an' 
through  the  house  to  the  kitchen,  where  there  was  a 
good  hot  fire  in  the  range.  It  was  bitter  cold  out- 
doors, an'  we  set  down  around  the  stove  just  as  we 
was,  with  the  letters  on  the  floor  in  front  o'  the  hearth. 
An'  when  Mis'  Sykes  hed  got  the  bracket  lamp  lit, 
she  turned  round,  her  bonnet  all  crooked  but 'her 
face  triumphant,  an'  took  off  a  griddle  of  the  stove 
an'  stirred  up  the  coals.  An'  we  see  what  was  in 
her  mind. 

" c  We  can  take  turns  puttin'  'em  in,'  she  says. 


246        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  But  I  guess  it  was  in  all  our  minds  what  Mis' 
Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  says,  wistful :  — 

"  (  Don't  you  think/  she  says,  c  or  do  you  think, 
it'd  be  wrongin'  Mr.  Pitlaw  if  we  read  over  the 
postmarks  out  loud  first?' 

"  We  divided  up  the  bunches  an'  we  set  down 
around  an'  untied  the  strings,  an',  turn  in  an'  turn 
out,  we  read  the  postmarks  off.  'Most  every  one  of 
'em  was  foreign — oh,  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you 
where.  It  was  all  mixed  up  an'  shinin'  of  names 
we'd  never  heard  of  before,  an'  names  we  had  heard 
in  sermons  an'  in  the  Bible  —  Egypt  an'  Greece  an' 
Rome  an'  isles  o'  the  sea.  Mis'  Toplady  stopped 
right  in  the  middle  o'  hers. 

" c  Oh,  I  can't  be  sure  I'm  pronouncin'  'em  right/ 
she  says,  huntin'  for  her  handkerchief,  c  but  I  guess 
you  ladies  get  the/^/  o'  the  places,  don't  you  ? ' 

"  An'  that  was  just  it :  we  did.  We  got  the  feel 
of  them  far  places  that  night  like  we  never  could  hev 
hed  it  any  other  way.  An'  when  we  got  all  through, 
Mis'  Toplady  spoke  up  again — but  this  time  it  was 
like  she  flew  up  a  little  way  an'  lit  on  somethin'. 

" c  It  ain't  likely/  she  says,  c  that  we'll  ever,  any 
of  us,  hev  a  letter  of  our  own  from  places  like  these. 
We  don't  get  many  letters,  an'  what  we  do  get  come 
from  the  same  old  towns,  over  an'  over  again,  an' 
quite  near  by.  Do  you  know/  she  says,  c  I  believe 
this  Writin'  here '  —  she  held  out  the  tiny  fine  writ- 


POSTMARKS  247 

ing  that  was  like  a  woman  with  soft  ways  — c  would 
understand  if  we  each  took  one  of  her  letters  an* 
glued  it  together  here  an'  now  an'  carried  it  home 
an'  pasted  it  in  our  Bibles.  She  went  travellin'  off 
to  them  places,  an'  she  must  have  wanted  to;  an'  she 
would  know  what  it  is  to  want  to  go  an'  yet  never 
get  there.' 

"  I  think  Mis'  Amanda  was  right — we  all  thought 
so.  An'  we  done  what  she  mentioned,  an'  made  our 
choice  o'  postmarks.  I  know  Mis'  Amanda  took 
Cairo. 

" '  'Count  of  the  name  sort  o'  picturin'  out  a  palm 
tree  a-growin'  an'  a-wavin'  against  a  red  sky,'  she 
says,  when  she  was  pinnin'  her  shawl  clear  up  over 
her  hat  to  go  out  in  the  cold.  c  Think  of  it,'  she 
says ;  c  she  might  'a'  passed  a  palm  the  day  she 
wrote  it.  Ain't  it  like  seein'  'em  grow  yourself? ' 

..."  Mebbe  it  all  wasn't  quite  regular,"  Calliope 
added,  "  though  we  made  over  five  dollars  at  the  Ten 
Cent  Fete.  But  the  minister,  when  we  told  him, 
he  seemed  to  think  it  was  all  right,  an'  he  kep' 
smilin',  sweet  an'  deep,  like  we'd  done  more'n  we 
had  done.  An'  I  think  he  knew  what  we  meant 
when  we  said  we  was  all  feelin'  nearer,  lion  an* 
lamb,  to  them  strange  missionary  countries.  Be- 
cause—  oh,  well,  sometimes,  you  know,"  Calliope 
said, "  they's  things  that  makes  you  feel  nearer  to  far- 
away places  that  couldn't  hev  any  postmark  at  all." 


XV 

PETER 

LAST  night  in  my  room  there  was  no  sleeping, 
because  the  moon  was  there.  It  is  a  south  room, 
and  when  the  moon  shines  on  the  maple  floor  with 
its  white  cotton  rugs  and  is  reflected  from  the  smooth 
white  walls,  to  step  within  is  like  entering  an  open 
flower.  Who  could  sleep  in  an  open  flower?  I 
might  sleep  in  a  vast  white  petunia,  because  petunias 
do  not  have  as  much  to  say  to  me  as  do  some  other 
flowers.  But  in  the  bell  of  a  lily,  as  in  the  bell  of 
the  sky  or  in  my  moonlit  room,  I  should  wish  my 
thought  to  stay  awake  and  be  somebody.  Be  Some- 
body. On  these  nights,  it  is  as  if  one  had  a  friend 
in  one's  head  conferring  with  one.  And  I  think  of 
this  comrade  as  Her,  the  Custodian  of  me,  who 
lives  deep  within  and  nearly  comes  outside  to  this 
white  porch  of  the  moon. 

I  like  to  light  my  candle  and  watch  its  warm  rays 
mix  with  the  blue-white  beams  from  without.  There 
would  have  been  a  proper  employment  for  a  wizard: 

248 


PETER  249 

to  diffuse  varying  ^substantialities,  such  as  these, 
and  to  look  within  them,  as  within  a  pool  —  a  pool 
free  of  its  basin  and  enjoying  the  air.  Yes,  they 
were  an  unimaginative  race,  wizards.  When  will 
the  era  of  white  art  come,  with  aesthetic  witches  and 
wizards  who  know  our  modern  magics  of  colour  and 
form  and  perception  as  a  mere  basis  for  their  sorcer- 
ies ?  Instead  of  pottering  with  thick,  slab  gruel  and 
mediaeval  newts'  eyes,  think  what  witches  they  will 
be !  Sometimes  I  think  that  they  are  already 
arriving.  The  New  Lady  told  me  the  most  delight- 
ful thing  about  a  Thought  of  hers  that  she  saw  .  .  . 
but  it  was  such  an  elusive  thing  to  tell  and  so  much 
of  it  I  had  to  guess,  because  words  have  not  yet 
caught  up  with  fancies,  that  it  is  hard  to  write  down. 
Besides,  perhaps  you  know.  And  if  you  did  not 
know,  you  would  skip  this  part  anyway.  So  I 
merely  mention  that  she  mentioned  the  coming  alive 
of  a  thought  of  hers  which  helped  her  spirit  to 
grow,  quite  without  her  will.  Very  likely  you  under- 
stand other  wizardries.  An  excellent  place  to  think 
them  out  must  be  the  line  where  candle  rays  meet 
moonbeams,  but  there  is  no  such  discoverable  line, 
just  as  there  is  no  discoverable  line  between  the 
seeing  and  the  knowing,  where  the  Custodian  dwells. 
...  By  all  of  which  I  am  merely  showing  you  what 
the  moon  can  do  to  one's  head  and  that  it  is  no 
great  wonder  that  one  cannot  sleep. 


FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"Ain't  the  moon  kind  of  like  a  big,  shinin'  brain/' 
Calliope  said  once,  "  an'  moonlight  nights  it  gets  in 
your  head  and  thinks  for  you." 

So  last  night  when  I  went  in  my  room  I  did  not 
try  to  sleep ;  nor  did  I  even  light  my  candle.  I 
went  straight  to  a  window  and  opened  it —  the  one 
without  a  screen.  I  would  not  live  in  a  house  that 
did  not  have  certain  windows  which  one  could  open 
to  let  in  the  moon,  or  the  night,  or  the  living  out-of- 
doors,  with  no  screens  to  thwart  their  impulse. 
Suppose  that  sometime  Diana  —  well,  suppose  what 
you  will  that  is  sensible,  no  moon  can  shine  through 
a  screen.  Really,  it  cannot  do  its  best  through  even 
an  open  window.  And  this  was  why  I  gave  up  try- 
ing to  make  it  do  so  and  went  downstairs  again  — 
which  is  the  earthly  and  rational  of  floating  out  into 
that  utter  beauty  as  I  wanted  to  float. 

Of  going  out  into  such  a  night  I  would  like  to 
write  for  a  long  time,  as  I  would  like  to  keep  on 
breathing  lilies-of-the-valley  and  never  have  done. 
I  think,  though,  that  "  into  "  such  a  night  is  not  the 
word ;  to  go'  out  upon  the  night  is  the  essential  ex- 
perience. For,  like  a  June  day,  a  moonlit  night  of 
itself  will  not  let  us  inside.  We  must  know  some 
other  way  of  entrance.  And  I  suspect  that  some  of 
us  never  quite  find  the  way  —  I  wonder  if  we  are 
missed  ? 

I  stepped  round  the  house  to  the  open  ocean  of 


PETER  251 

light  that  broke  on  soft  shores  of  leaf  and  line, 
solemnizing,  magnifying.  It  was  like  a  glimpse 
into  something  which,  afterward  and  afterward,  is 
going  to  be.  The  defmiteness  of  its  premonitory 
message  was  startling.  As  when  on  seeing  once 
that  something  had  happened  on  my  birthday,  1 500, 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  heard  from  a  kind  of  twin-time, 
so  now  I  understood  that  this  night  was  the  birth- 
day of  far-off,  immortal  moments  of  my  own,  yet  to 
be  lived  ...  so  friendly  near  we  are  to  the  im- 
measurable kindred. 

And  there,  from  the  shadow  of  the  flowering  cur- 
rant bush,  which  just  now  is  out  of  flower  and  fallen 
in  meditative  quiet  —  a  man  arose.  My  sharp  fear, 
as  savage  a  thing  as  if  the  world  were  ten  thousand 
years  younger,  or  as  if  I  were  a  ptarmigan  and  he  a 
cougar  —  was  only  momentary.  For  the  cougar 
began  to  apologize  and  I  recognized  him. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "  Peter." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  he,  "  I  couldn't  help  being  here  — 
for  a  little  while." 

"  Neither  could  I,  Peter,"  I  told  him. 

These  were  remarkable  admissions  of  ours,  for  a 
large  part  of  evening  in  the  village  is  an  uninhabi- 
table part  of  day  and,  no  matter  in  what  splendour 
of  sky  it  comes/is  a  thing  to  be  shut  outside  ex- 
perience. If  we  relate  being  wakened  by  something 
that  goes  bang,  we  begin  it,  "In  the  middle  of  the 


252        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

night,  about  twelve  o'clock ; "  and,  "  They  have  a 
light  in  their  house  'most  every  night  till  midnight," 
is  a  bit  of  sharp  criticism  not  lightly  to  be  lived  down. 
But  now  it  was  as  if  Peter  were  a  part  of  the  time 
itself,  and  outlaw  too,  if  the  evening  was  outlaw. 
"  I'm  glad  I  saw  you,"  Peter  said  —  as  if  we  were 
here  met  by  chance  in  the  usual  manner.  "  I 
wanted  to  see  you  and  tell  you  :  I'm  going  away  — 
to  be  gone  right  along." 

"  Why,"  I  said  again,  "  Peter  !  " 

"  You'd  go  too,"  he  said  simply. 

cc  I  should  want  to  go,"  I  told  him,  "but  I  doubt 
if  I  would  go.  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  They  want  to  put  in  a  cannery  at  Marl.  It'd 
be  a  branch.  I'd  run  it  myself." 

I  did  not  miss  the  implication  of  the  conditional 
mood.  And  Marl.  What  wonderful  names  they 
give  to  some  of  the  towns  of  this  world.  That 
word  makes  a  picture  all  of  white  cornices  and  white 
wings  of  buildings  and  bright  fasades.  I  dare  say 
from  the  railroad  track  the  real  town  of  Marl  shows 
an  unpainted  livery  barn  and  a  blue  barber  shop, 
but  the  name  sounds  like  the  name  of  a  chapter  of 
travel,  beginning :  To-day  we  drove  to  Marl  to  see 
the  queen.  Or  the  cataract.  Or  the  porch  of  the 
morning. 

"  Why  are  you  going,  Peter  ? "  I  drove  in  the  peg 
for  him. 


PETER  253 

"  I  guess  you  know,"  he  said.  "  It's  all  Miggy 
with  me." 

I  knew  that  he  wanted  before  all  else  to  tell  some- 
body, to  talk  to  somebody,  to  have  somebody  know. 

"Tell  me,  Peter,"  I  said. 

And  now  Peter  told  me  how  things  were  with 
him.  If  I  should  repeat  what  he  said  you  would 
be  scornful,  for  it  was  so  little.  It  was  broken  and 
commonplace  and  set  with  repetition.  It  was  halt- 
ing and  unfinished,  like  the  unformed  writing  of  a 
boy.  But  in  his  words  I  felt  the  movings  of  life 
and  destiny  and  death  more  than  I  feel  them  when 
I  think  about  the  rushing  of  the  stars.  He  loved 
her,  and  for  him  the  world  became  a  transparent 
plane  wherein  his  soul  moved  as  simply  as  his  body. 
Here  was  not  only  a  boy  longing  for  a  girl.  Here 
was  not  only  a  man,  instinct  with  the  eager  hope  of 
establishing  a  home.  Here  was  something  not  un- 
like this  very  moon-washed  area  won  from  the  il- 
limitable void,  this  area  where  we  stood  and  spoke 
together,  this  little  spot  which  alone  was  to  us 
articulate  with  form  and  line  and  night  sounds.  So 
Peter,  stumbling  over  his  confession  of  love  for 
Miggy,  was  like  the  word  uttered  by  destiny  to  ex- 
plicate its  principle.  It  mattered  not  at  all  what 
the  night  said  or  what  Peter  said.  Both  were 
celestial. 

These  moments  when  the  soul  presses  close  to 


254        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

its  windows  are  to  be  understood  as  many  another 
hint  at  the  cosmic — Dawn,  May,  the  firmament, 
.radio-activity,  theistic  evolution,  a  thousand  manifes- 
tations of  the  supernal.  In  this  cry  of  enduring  spirit 
it  was  as  if  Peter  had  some  intimacy  with  all  that  has 
no  boundaries.  I  hardly  heard  his  stumbling  words. 
I  listened  to  him  down  some  long  avenue  of  hearths 
whose  twinkling  lights  were  like  a  corridor  of  stars. 

And  all  this  bright  business  was  to  be  set  at 
naught  because  Miggy  would  have  none  of  it. 

"  She  seems  to  like  me,"  Peter  said  miserably, 
"  but  I  guess  she'd  like  me  just  as  well  if  I  wasn't 
me.  And  if  I  was  right  down  somebody  else,  I 
guess  she'd  like  me  a  good  deal  better.  She  —  don't 
like  my  hands  —  nor  the  way  my  hair  sticks  up  at 
the  back.  She  thinks  of  all  such  things.  I  wouldn't 
care  if  she  said  all  her  words  crooked.  I'd  know 
what  she  meant." 

I  knew  the  difference.  To  him  she  was  Miggy. 
To  her  he  was  an  individual.  He  had  never  in  her 
eyes  graduated  from  being  a  person  to  being  him- 
self. 

"  Calliope  says,"  I  told  him,  "  that  she  likes 
almond  extract  better  than  any  other  kind,  but  that 
she  hardly  ever  gets  a  bottle  of  almond  with 
which  she  does  not  find  fault.  She  says  it's  the 
same  way  with  people  one  loves." 

Peter   smiled  —  he  is   devoted  to  Calliope,  who 


PETER  255 

alone  in  the  village  has  been  friendly  with  his  father. 
Friendly.  The  rest  of  the  village  has  only  been 
kind. 

"  Well,"  he  tried  to  put  it,  "  but  Miggy  never 
seems  to  be  thinking  of  me  as  mey  only  when  she's 
finding  fault  with  me.  If  she'd  only  think  about 
me,  even  a  little,  the  way  I  think  about  her.  If 
she'd  only  miss  me  or  want  me  or  wonder  how  the 
house  would  seem  if  we  were  married.  But  she 
don't  care  —  she  don't  care." 

"  She  says,  you  know,"  I  ventured,  "  that  she 
can't  ask  you  to  support  Little  Child  too." 

"  Can't  she  see,"  he  cried,  "  that  the  little  thing 
only  makes  me  love  her  more  ?  Don't  she  know 
how  I  felt  the  other  night  —  when  she  let  me  help 
her  that  way  ?  She  must  know.  It's  just  an 
excuse  —  " 

He  broke  off  and  his  hands  dropped. 

"Then  there's  her  other  reason,"  he  said,  "  I 
guess  you  know  that.  I  can't  blame  her  for  it. 
But  even  with  that,  it  kind  of  seems  as  if,  —  if  she 
loved  me  —  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  Peter,  it  does  seem  so." 

And  yet  in  my  heart  I  am  certain  that  the  reason 
is  not  at  all  that  Miggy  cannot  love  him  —  I  re- 
member the  woman-softening  of  her  face  that  fore- 
noon when  she  found  the  spirit  of  the  old  romances 
in  the  village.  I  am  not  even  certain  that  the  reason 


256        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

is  that  she  does  not  love  Peter  now  —  I  remember 
how  tender  and  feminine  she  was  the  other  night 
with  Peter  and  Little  Child.  I  think  it  is  only  that 
the  cheap  cynicism  of  the  village  —  which  nobody 
means  even  when  it  is  said  !  —  has  taught  her  badly  ; 
and  that  Life  has  not  yet  touched  her  hand,  has  not 
commanded  "  Look  at  me,"  has  not  bidden  her 
follow  with  us  all. 

I  looked  into  the  bright  bowl  of  the  night  which 
is  alternately  with  one  and  against  one  in  one's  mood 
of  emprise  ;  the  bright  bowl  of  the  night  inverted  as 
if  some  mighty  genii  were  shaking  the  stars  about  like 
tea-leaves  to  fortune  the  future.  What  a  pastime 
that  for  a  wizard  ! 

"Oh,  Peter,"  I  said,  cc//*one  were  a  wizard!" 

"  I  didn't  understand,"  said  Peter. 

"  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  make  folk  love 
folk,"  I  put  it. 

He  understood  that.  "Wouldn't  it,  though?" 
he  assented  wistfully.  So  does  everybody  under- 
stand. Wouldn't  it,  though  !  Oh,  don't  you  wish 
you  could? 

In  the  silence  which  fell  I  kept  on  looking  at  those 
starry  tea-leaves  until  I  protest  that  a  thought  awoke 
in  my  mind  as  if  it  wanted  to  be  somebody.  Be 
Somebody.  It  was  as  if  it  came  alive,  quite  without 
my  will,  so  that  almost  I  could  see  it.  It  was  a 
friend  conferring  in  my  head.  Perhaps  it  was  the 


PETER  257 

Custodian  herself,  come  outside  to  that  white  porch 
of  the  moon. 

"  Peter,"  I  said,  "  I  think  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a 
story." 

For  I  longed  to  make  him  patient  with  Miggy, 
as  men,  who  understand  these  things  first,  are  not 
always  patient  with  women,  who  often  and  often 
understand  too  late. 

He  listened  to  the  story  as  I  am  setting  it  down 
here  —  the  story  of  the  New  Village.  But  in  it  I 
could  say  nothing  of  how,  besides  by  these  things 
celestial,  cosmic,  I  was  touched  by  the  simple,  human 
entreaty  of  the  big,  baffled  man  and  that  about  his 
hands  and  the  way  his  hair  sticks  up  at  the  back. 


XVI 

THE    NEW   VILLAGE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  village  which  might 
have  been  called  The-Way-Certain-Folk-Want-It- 
Now.  That,  however,  was  not  its  name  — it  had  a 
proper,  map-sounding  name.  And  there  every  one 
went  to  and  fro  with  a  fervour  and  nimbleness  which 
proved  him  to  be  skilfully  intent  upon  his  own 
welfare. 

The  village  had  simple  buildings  and  white  walls, 
lanes  and  flowering  things  and  the  flow  of  pure 
air.  But  the  strange  thing  about  the  town  was 
that  there  each  inhabitant  lived  alone.  Every  house 
had  but  one  inmate  and  he  well  content.  He  liked 
everything  that  he  owned  and  his  taste  was  all-suffi- 
cient and  he  took  his  pleasure  in  his  own  walls  and 
loved  best  his  own  ways.  The  day  was  spent  in 
lonely  selling  or  lonely  buying,  each  man  pitted 
against  all  others,  and  advantage  and  disadvantage 
were  never  equal,  but  yet  the  transactions  were 
dreary,  lacking  the  picturesqueness  of  unlicensed 
spoliation.  The  only  greeting  which  folk  exchanged 

258 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  259 

in  passing  was,  "  Sir,  what  do  you  do  for  yourself?  " 
There  were  no  assemblings  of  the  people.  The 
town  kept  itself  alive  by  accretion  from  without. 
When  one  died  another  appeared  and  took  his  place 
gladly,  and  also  others  arrived,  like  precept  added  to 
precept  and  not  like  a  true  flowering.  There  were 
no  children.  And  the  village  common  was  over- 
grown and  breast-high  with  weeds.  When  the  day 
was  done  every  one  retired  to  his  own  garden  and 
saw  his  flowers  blossoming  for  him  and  answering 
to  the  stars  which  came  and  stood  over  his  head. 
There  was  in  the  town  an  epidemic  of  the  intensive, 
only  the  people  thought  of  it  as  the  normal,  for 
frequently  epidemics  are  so  regarded. 

In  one  soul  the  contagion  did  not  prevail.  The 
soul  was  the  lad  Matthew,  whose  body  lived  on  the 
town's  only  hill.  When  others  sat  at  night  in  their 
gardens  Matthew  was  wont  to  go  up  an  airy  path 
which  he  had  made  to  the  upper  spaces  and  there 
wander  conjecturing  about  being  alive.  For  this 
was  a  detail  which  he  never  could  take  wholly  for 
granted,  in  the  manner  in  which  he  had  become 
wonted  to  door-mats,  napkin-rings,  oatmeal,  and 
mirrors.  Therefore  he  took  his  thought  some  way 
nearer  to  the  stars,  and  there  he  found  so  much 
beauty  that  he  longed  to  fashion  it  to  something, 
to  create  of  it  anew.  And  as  he  opened  his  heart 
he  began  to  understand  that  there  is  some  one  of 


26o        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

whom  he  was  the  offspring.  As  he  was  compan- 
ioned by  this  idea,  more  and  more  he  longed  for 
things  to  come  nearer.  Once,  in  his  walking  a 
hurrying  bird  brushed  his  face,  grew  confused, 
fluttered  at  his  breast,  and  as  he  would  have  closed 
it  in  his  hands  he  found  that  the  bird  was  gone  and 
his  hands  were  empty,  but  beneath  them  his  own 
heart  fluttered  and  throbbed  like  a  thing  apart. 

One  night,  so  great  was  the  abstraction  of  the 
boy,  that  instead  of  taking  the  upper  path  he  fared 
down  into  the  town.  It  was  a  curious  way  to  do — 
to  go  walking  in  the  town  as  if  the  thing  were  com- 
mon property,  but  then  the  walls  were  very  high 
and  the  gates  were  fast  closed  and  bound  round 
with  creeping  things,  which  grow  very  quickly. 
Matthew  longed  to  enter  these  gardens,  and  he 
wondered  who  lived  in  the  houses  and  what  might 
be  in  their  hearts. 

Amazingly,  at  the  turn  of  a  white  wall,  a  gate  was 
opened  and  she  who  had  opened  it  leaned  into  the 
night  as  if  she  were  looking  for  something.  There 
was  a  fluttering  in  the  breast  of  Matthew  so  that  he 
looked  down  to  see  if  the  bird  had  come  back.  But 
no  bird  was  there.  And  it  smote  him  that  the 
lady's  beauty,  and  surely  her  goodness,  were  great 
enough  so  that  of  them  something  might  be  created, 
as  he  would  fain  have  created  marvels  from  the  sky. 

"  I  would  like  to  make  your  beauty  into  some- 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  261 

thing  other,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I  cannot  think  whether 
this  would  be  a  song  or  a  picture  or  a  vision." 

She  looked  at  him  with  as  much  pleasure  as  if  he 
had  been  an  idea  of  her  own. 

"Tell  me  about  my  beauty,"  she  bade  him. 
"  What  thing  is  that  ?  " 

"Nay,  that  will  take  some  while,"  Matthew  said. 
"  If  I  do  that,  I  must  come  in  your  garden." 

Now,  such  a  thing  had  never  happened  in  the 
town.  And  as  this  seemed  why  it  never  happened, 
it  seemed  likely  to  go  on  never  happening  indefi- 
nitely. But  loneliness  and  the  longing  to  create  and 
the  conjecture  about  life  have  always  been  as  potent 
as  battles ;  and  beauty  and  boredom  and  curiosity 
have  had  something  to  do  with  history  as  well. 

"Just  this  once,  then,"  said  the  lady,  and  the 
gate  closed  upon  the  two. 

Here  was  a  garden  like  Matthew's  own,  but  in- 
definitely atmosphered  other.  It  spoke  strangely 
of  a  wonted  presence,  other  than  his  own.  In  his 
own  garden  he  fitted  as  if  the  space  for  him  were 
niched  in  the  air,  and  he  went  as  a  man  accustomed 
will  go  without  thinking.  But  here  he  moved  free, 
making  new  niches.  And  whereas  on  his  own 
walks  and  plots  he  looked  with  lack-lustre  eye  as  a 
man  looks  on  his  own  gas-jet  or  rain  pipe,  now 
Matthew  looked  on  all  that  he  saw  as  on  strange 
flame  and  sweet  waters.  And  it  was  not  the  shrubs 


262        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

and  flowers  which  most  delighted  him,  but  it  was 
rather  on  a  garden  bench  the  lady's  hat  and  gloves 
and  scissors. 

"  How  pleasing ! "  said  he,  and  stopped  before 
them. 

"  Do  you  find  them  so  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

And  when  he  told  her  about  her  beauty,  which 
was  more  difficult  to  do  than  he  had  imagined  and 
took  a  longer  time,  she  said :  — 

"  There  can  be  no  other  man  in  the  world  who 
would  speak  as  you  speak/' 

On  which  he  swore  that  there  was  no  man  who 
would  not  speak  so,  and  likewise  that  no  man 
could  mean  one-half  what  he  himself  meant.  And 
he  looked  long  at  her  house. 

"In  those  rooms,"  he  said,  "you  go  about.  I 
wish  that  I  could  go  about  there." 

But  that  frightened  her  a  little. 

"  In  there,"  he  said,  "  are  the  lamps  you  light, 
the  plates  you  use,  the  brush  that  smooths  your 
hair.  How  strange  that  is." 

"  Does  it  seem  strange  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Sometime  I  will  go  there,"  said  he,  and  with 
that  he  thought  that  the  bird  once  more  was  flutter- 
ing at  his  breast.  And  again  there  was  no  bird. 

When  the  time  was  come  that  he  must  leave  her, 
this  seemed  the  most  valiant  thing  to  do  that  ever 
he  had  done.  It  was  inconceivable  to  accept  that 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  263 

though  now  she  was  with  him,  breathing,  sentient, 
yet  in  another  moment  he  would  be  out  alone  in  the 
empty  night.  Alone.  For  the  first  time  the  word 
became  a  sinister  thing.  It  meant  to  be  where  she 
was  not. 

"  How  is  this  to  go  on,"  he  said,  "  I  living  where 
you  do  not  live  ?  " 

But  she  said,  "  Such  things  have  never  been  any 
other  way,"  and  closed  the  gate  upon  him. 

It  is  a  mighty  thing  when  one  who  has  always 
lived  alone  abruptly  finds  himself  to  have  a  double 
sense.  Here  is  his  little  box  of  ideas,  neatly  classi- 
fied, ready  for  reference,  which  have  always  methodic- 
ally bobbed  out  of  their  own  will  the  moment  they 
were  mentioned.  Here  are  his  own  varieties  of  im- 
pression ready  to  be  laid  like  a  pattern  upon  what- 
ever presents  itself  to  be  cut  out.  Here  are  his 
tastes,  his  sentiments,  his  beliefs,  his  longings,  all 
selected  and  labelled  and  established.  And  abruptly 
ideas  and  impressions  and  tastes  are  thrown  into  rapt 
disorder  while  he  wonders  what  this  other  being 
would  think,  and  his  sentiment  glows  like  a  lamp, 
his  belief  embraces  the  world,  his  longing  becomes 
only  that  the  other  being's  longing  be  cast  in  counter- 
part. When  he  walks  abroad,  the  other's  step  ac- 
companies him,  a  little  back,  and  invisible,  but  as 
authentic  as  his  own.  When  he  thinks,  his  thought, 
without  his  will,  would  share  itself.  All  this  is  a 


264        FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

new  way  of  consciousness.  All  this  makes  two  uni- 
verses where  one  universe  had  previously  been  com- 
petent to  support  life. 

Back  on  his  hill  Matthew  went  through  his  house 
as  if  he  were  seeing  it  for  the  first  time.  There  was 
the  garden  that  he  had  planted,  and  she  was  not 
walking  there.  There  was  his  window,  and  she  was 
not  looking  from  it ;  his  table,  and  she  was  not  sit- 
ting beside  it ;  his  book  which  he  could  not  read 
for  wondering  if  she  had  read.  All  the  tools  of  his 
home,  what  could  they  not  become  if  she  touched 
them  ?  The  homely  tasks  of  the  cupboard,  what  joy 
if  she  shared  them  ?  But  what  to  do  ?  He  thought 
that  it  might  be  something  if  they  exchanged 
houses,  so  that  he  could  be  where  she  had  been, 
could  use  what  she  had  used,  could  think  of  her  in 
her  setting.  But  yet  this  did  not  wholly  delight 
him,  either. 

And  now  his  house  stifled  him,  so  that  he  rushed 
out  upon  that  airy  path  of  his  that  he  had  made  to 
reach  the  upper  spaces,  and  he  fled  along,  learning 
about  being  alive.  Into  the  night  he  went,  farther 
than  ever  he  had  gone  before,  till  the  stars  looked 
nearer  to  him  than  houses  commonly  look,  and 
things  to  think  about  seemed  there  waiting  for 
him. 

So  it  adventured  that  he  came  abruptly  upon  the 
New  Village.  It  lay  upon  the  air  as  lightly  as  if 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  265 

strong,  fair  hands  were  uniting  to  bear  it  up,  and 
it  was  not  far  from  the  stars  and  the  clear  places. 
Before  he  understood  its  nearness,  the  night  was,  so 
to  say,  endued  with  this  village,  and  he  entered  upon 
its  lanes  as  upon  light. 

This  was  a  town  no  larger  than  his  own  and  no 
more  fortuned  of  Nature.  Here  were  buildings 
not  too  unlike,  and  white  walls  and  flowering  things 
and  the  flow  of  pure  air.  But  here  was  also  the 
touch  of  bells.  And  he  saw  that  every  one  went  to 
and  fro  in  a  manner  of  quiet  purpose  that  was  like  a 
garment. 

"  Sir,  what  do  you  do  for  yourself? "  he  asked 
courteously  of  one  who  was  passing. 

The  citizen  gave  him  greeting. 

"  I  make  bread  for  my  family,"  said  he,  "  and,  it 
may  be,  a  dream  or  two." 

Matthew  tried  hard  to  perceive,  and  could  make 
nothing  of  this. 

"  Your  family,"  he  said,  "  what  thing  is  that  ?  " 

The  citizen  looked  at  him  narrowly. 

"  I  see  that  you  rebuke  me,"  said  he,  gently  ;  cc  but 
I,  too,  labor  for  the  community,  so  that  the  day 
shall  become  a  better  day." 

"  Community,"  said  Matthew.  "  Now  I  know 
not  at  all  what  that  may  be,  either." 

Then  the  man  understood  that  here  was  one  who 
would  learn  about  these  things,  and  in  the  New 


266       FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Village  such  a  task  is  sacred  and  to  be  assumed  on 
the  moment  by  any  to  whom  the  opportunity  pre- 
sents. So  the  man  took  Matthew  with  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said, "  this  is  the  day  when  we  meet 
together." 

"  Together,"  said  Matthew,  and  without  knowing 
why  he  liked  what  he  felt  when  he  said  that. 

They  went  first  to  the  market-place,  trodden  of 
many  feet,  and  about  it  a  fair  green  common  planted 
in  gracious  lines.  Here  Matthew  found  men  in 
shops  that  were  built  simply  and  like  one  another 
in  fashion,  but  with  pleasant  devices  of  difference, 
and  he  found  many  selling  together  and  many  buy- 
ing, and  no  one  was  being  robbed. 

"  How  can  these  things  be  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Here 
every  man  stands  with  the  others." 

"  Inside  of  all  things,"  the  citizen  answered,  "  you 
will  find  that  it  is  so  written." 

On  the  common  many  were  assembled  to  name 
certain  projects  and  purposes:  the  following  of 
paths  to  still  clearer  spaces,  the  nurturing  of  certain 
people,  ways  of  cleanliness,  purity  of  water,  of  milk, 
wide  places  for  play,  the  fashioning  of  labour  so  that 
the  shrines  within  be  not  foregone,  the  freeing  of 
fountains,  the  planting  of  green  things. 

"  Why  will  all  this  be  ?  "  asked  Matthew.  "  For 
these  things  a  man  does  in  his  own  garden  or  for 
his  own  house,  and  no  other  interferes." 


THE   NEW    VILLAGE  267 

"  Nay,  but  look  deep  within  all  things,  Friend," 
the  citizen  said,  "  and  you  will  never  find  it  written 


so." 


"  Friend,"  repeated  Matthew,  "friend .  .  ." 

Then  the  citizen  went  to  his  own  house,  and 
Matthew  with  him.  The  wall  was  no  wall,  but  a 
hedge,  and  the  garden  was  very  beautiful.  And  Id, 
when  they  went  in,  there  came  tumbling  along  the 
path  little  beings  made  in  the  image  of  the  citizen 
himself.  And  with  them  a  woman  of  exceeding 
beauty  and  power,  which  the  little  ones  also  bore. 
As  if  the  citizen  had  chosen  her  beauty  and  power 
to  make  them  into  something  other. 

It  was  as  it  had  been  when  the  bird  was  fluttering 
and  beating  at  the  boy's  breast,  but  he  did  not  even 
heed. 

"Tell  me!"  he  cried.  "These— do  they  live 
here  with  you  ?  Are  they  yours  ?  " 

"  We  are  one  another's,"  said  the  citizen. 

Matthew  sat  among  them,  and  to  pleasure  him 
they  did  many  sweet  tasks.  They  brought  him  to 
eat  and  drink  in  the  garden.  The  woman  gave 
quiet  answers  that  had  in  them  something  living, 
and  alive,  too,  some  while  after  she  had  spoken. 
("  So  she  could  answer,"  Matthew  thought,  "  and 
better,  too,  than  that.")  And  the  children  brought 
him  a  shell,  a  pretty  stone,  a  broken  watch,  and  a 
little  woolly  lamb  on  three  wheels,  and  the  fourth 


268        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

wheel  missing.  The  lamb  had  a  sound  to  make  by 
squeezing,  and  this  sound  Matthew  made  a  great 
many  times,  and  every  time  the  children  laughed. 
And  when  they  did  that  Matthew  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say  that  seemed  a  thing  to  be  said,  but 
he  was  inscrutably  elated,  and  did  the  trick  again. 

And  when  he  rose  to  take  his  leave:  — 

"  Is  it  for  them  that  you  make  bread  and  a  dream 
or  two  ?  "  he  asked. 

He  knew  that  he  should  always  like  to  remember 
the  citizen's  smile  as  he  answered. 

They  stood  at  the  opening  of  the  hedge  and  folk 
were  going  by. 

"  Are  they  not  jealous  of  you  ?  "  Matthew  asked. 

"They  have  families  and  bread  and  dreams  of 
their  own,"  said  the  citizen.  "  Every  house  is  filled 
with  them." 

Matthew  looked  breathlessly  along  the  street  of 
the  New  Village,  and  he  saw  men,  as  they  went, 
giving  one  another  greeting :  "  Friend,  is  much  ac- 
complished ?  "  or,  "  Peace  to  you,  Friend."  And 
they  talked  together,  and  entered  gardens  where 
were  those  who  came  to  meet  them  or  who  waited 
within.  They  were  a  fine  company,  moving  as 
to  some  secret  way  of  being,  and  as  if  they  had  all 
looked  deep  within  to  see  how  it  is  written.  And  as  he 
watched,  something  in  Matthew  would  have  cried 
out  that  he,  too,  was  offspring  of  their  Father,  that 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  269 

for  all  this  had  he  too  been  created,  and  that  for  this 
would  he  live,  joying  and  passioning  and  toiling  in 
the  common  destiny.  But  when  he  spoke,  all  that 
he  could  say  was  :  — 

"  Every  man,  then,  may  sit  down  now  with  a 
lamb  with  three  wheels  and  the  fourth  wheel 
missing  .  .  ." 

On  which  he  ceased  for  very  shame.  But  the 
citizen  understood  and  smiled  once  more,  and  said 
to  him  :  "  Come  you  here  again,  Brother." 

With  that  word  Matthew  was  off,  down  from  the 
clear  upper  spaces,  to  where,  lonely  on  its  hill,  his 
own  house  stood  among  its  lonely  neighbours.  And 
Matthew  strode  shouting  down  the  deserted  streets 
and  calling  at  every  gate  ;  and,  it  being  now  day, 
every  one  came  forth  to  his  lonely  toil. 

Matthew  went  and  stood  on  the  common 
where  the  weeds  were  high,  and  so  amazed  were  the 
folk  that  they  came  about  him,  each  suspecting  the 
other  of  secret  connivance  in  this  strange  business. 
For  nothing  had  ever  been  done  so. 

"  Men  and  brothers,"  cried  Matthew,  "  it  is  not 
so  that  it  was  meant.  I  pray  you  look  deep  within, 
and  see  how  the  meaning  was  written.  Is  it  that 
you  should  live,  each  pitted  against  another,  wound- 
ing the  other,  advantaging  himself?  Join  now  each 
his  hand  with  that  of  a  neighbour.  His  neighbour. 
Make  the  thing  of  which,  it  seems,  the  world  is  made  ; 


270        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

a  family.  Let  the  thing  come  alive  which  is  greater 
than  the  family:  the  community.  Oh,  my  com- 
rades, let  us  work  together  for  the  coming  of  the 
kingdom  of  God." 

In  the  murmur  that  rose  were  the  words  which 
have  been  spoken  since  time  began  :  — 

"It  is  not  so  that  it  was  done  in  the  old  time  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  not  seemly  that  we  change  .  .  ." 

"  If  every  one  did  this  .  .  .  but  we  cannot  do  it 
alone." 

"  Have  you  thought  what  will  become  of  our 
business  ?  " 

And  again  and  yet  again  :  "  It  is  not  so  that  it 
was  done  in  the  old  time." 

And  when  the  most  would  have  none  of  it, 
Matthew  made  his  way  sadly  through  the  throng 
—  of  whom  were  many  who  smiled  (kindly  !)  —  to 
the  edge  of  the  common,  where  stood  a  woman, 
trembling. 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

She  went  with  him,  and  she  with  many  little 
frightened  breaths,  but  he  had  no  pity,  for  he  read 
deep  within  and  saw  that  it  was  written  that  she 
wanted  none.  When  they  reached  her  own  house, 
she  would  have  entered. 

cc  Go  we  in  here,"  she  besought  him,  "  I  will  show 
you  the  rooms  where  I  go  about  and  the  lamps  that 
I  light." 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  271 

"  We  are  past  all  that  now,"  said  Matthew,  gently, 
"  I  will  not  go  on  living  where  you  do  not  live." 

He  took  her  to  his  own  house,  through  the  gar- 
den that  he  had  planted.  He  made  her  look  from 
his  window,  sit  by  his  table,  open  his  books  ;  and  he 
bade  her  to  a  little  task  at  the  cupboard  and  laughed 
for  joy  that  she  performed  it. 

"  Oh,  come  away,"  he  cried.  "  And  now  we  will 
go  quickly  to  the  New  Village,  that  one  which  I 
have  found  or  another,  where  men  know  all  this 
happiness  and  more." 

But  she  stood  there  by  Matthew's  cupboard  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said  gravely,  "  here  we  will  stay,  you 
and  I,  in  your  house.  Here  we  will  live  —  and  it 
may  be  there  is  a  handful  of  others  who  understand. 
And  here  we  will  do  what  we  can." 

"  But  I  must  show  you,"  Matthew  cried,  "  the 
way  the  others  live  —  the  things  they  strive  for: 
the  following  of  paths  to  clearer  spaces,  the  free- 
ing of  shrines." 

"  All  that,"  she  said,  "  we  will  do  here." 

"  But,"  he  urged,  "  you  must  see  how  else  they  do 
—  the  shell,  the  pretty  stone,  the  watch,  the  woolly 
lamb  on  three  wheels  and  one  wheel  missing.  .  .  ." 

"All  that,"  she  said,  "is  in  my  heart." 

Matthew  looked  in  her  face  and  marvelled,  for  he 
saw  that  beside  her  beauty  there  was  her  power,  and 


272        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

to  that  he  bowed  himself  as  to  a  far  voice.  And 
again  it  was  as  when  the  bird  was  at  his  breast,  but 
now  he  knew  what  this  would  be. 

So  they  live  there  in  Matthew's  house.  And  a 
handful  besides  understand  and  toil  for  the  fairer 
order.  And  this  will  come ;  and  then  that  New 
Village,  in  the  clear  upper  spaces,  will  hang  just 
above  every  village  —  nay,  will  come  down  to  clothe 
it  like  a  garment. 

When  I  had  done, 

"  Peter,"  I  said  —  I  nearly  called  him  Matthew  ! 

—  "these  are  the  things  that  Miggy  does  not  un- 
derstand.    And  that  she  will  understand." 

He  knew.  He  said  nothing;  but  he  knew  how 
it  is  written. 

"  Peter,"  I  said,  "  I  suppose  Miggy  will  never 
have  been  to  your  house  ?  " 

I  knew  that  she  could  not  have  been  there. 

"  Some  day  soon,"  I  said  —  "  before  you  go  away 

—  ask  us  to  come  there.     I  should  like  her  to  sit 
by  your  table  and  look  from  your  window." 

For  how  can  one  be  sure  that  divine  non-inter- 
ference is  always  divine  ? 

Peter  drew  his  breath  long. 

"Would  you?"  he  said;  "would  you?  So 
many  times  I've  thought  maybe  that  would  make 
her  think  of  me  as  if  I  was  me." 


THE   NEW   VILLAGE  273 

Yes,  that  might  help.  If  only  Miggy  knew  how 
to  shake  hands  as  Elfa  shook  hands  with  Nicholas 
Moor,  that  might  help,  too.  How  did  it  begin, 
this  pride  of  individualism  in  a  race  which  does  not 
know  its  own  destiny  save  as  the  great  relation- 
ships, human  and  divine,  can  reveal  that  destiny? 
But  Peter  knows !  And  the  hope  of  the  world  is 
that  so  many  do  know. 

Since  he  said  his  grateful  good  night  and  rushed 
away,  I  have  been  trying  to  readjust  my  impression 
of  Peter.  For  I  can  no  longer  think  of  him  in 
connection  with  Miggy  and  the  cannery  and  my 
neighbour's  lawn  and  the  village.  Now  he  is  a  fig- 
ure ranging  the  ample  intervals  of  a  field  fraternal 
to  the  night  and  to  the  day.  Fraternal,  too,  to 
any  little  moon-washed  area,  won  from  the  void, 
where  it  is  easy  to  be  in  conference  with  the  spirit 
without  and  within.  Truly,  it  is  as  if  the  meaning 
of  the  universe  were  passioning  for  the  comradeship 
of  hearts  that  can  understand. 


XVII 

ADOPTION 

THE  big  window  of  my  sitting  room  is  an  isle  of 
sirens  on  whose  shore  many  of  my  bird  neighbours 
are  continually  coming  to  grief.  For,  from  without, 
the  window  makes  a  place  of  soft  skies  and  seductive 
leaves  where  any  bird  might  think  to  wing  a  way. 
And  in  that  mirrored  deep  there  is  that  curious  at- 
mosphere which  makes  In-a-looking-glass  a  better 
thing  than  the  room  which  it  reflects  —  an  elusive 
sense  which  Little  Child  might  call  Isn't-any-such- 
pl'aceness.  I  think  that  I  might  call  it  so  too. 
And  so,  evidently,  the  birds  would  call  it,  for  they 
are  always  trying  to  find  there  some  path  of  flight. 

A  morning  or  two  ago,  when  I  heard  against  the 
pane  the  soft  thud  of  an  eager  little  body,  I  hurried 
out  to  see  lying  under  the  window  an  oriole.  It 
was  too  terrible  that  it  should  have  been  an  oriole. 
For  days  I  had  seen  him  hanging  here  and  there, 
back  downward,  on  this  limb  and  that,  and  heard 
his  full-throated  note  ringing  from  the  innermost 
air,  so  that  the  deeps  of  air  could  never  again  be 

274 


ADOPTION  275 

wholly  alien  to  me.  And  now  he  lay,  his  wings 
outstretched,  his  eyes  dim,  his  breast  hardly  mov- 
ing. I  watched  him,  hoping  for  the  breath  to  begin 
to  flutter  and  labour.  But  though  the  great  Nature 
was  with  him,  herself  passioning  in  all  the  little 
fibres  to  keep  life  pulsing  on,  yet  her  passion  was 
not  enough  ;  and  while  I  looked  the  little  life  went 
out. 

...  I  held  the  tiny  body  in  my  hand,  and  it 
was  almost  as  if  the  difference  between  living  and 
not  living  slipped  through  my  fingers  and  was  gone. 
If  only  that  one  within  me,  who  watches  between 
the  seeing  and  the  knowing,  had  been  a  little  quicker, 
I  might  almost  have  understood.  .  .  . 

"  Them  little  things  go  out  like  a  match,"  said 
my  neighbour. 

She  was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  box 
hedge,  and  I  caught  a  look  on  her  face  that  I  had 
seen  there  once  or  twice  before,  so  that  my  heart 
had  warmed  to  her ;  and  now,  because  of  that 
look,  she  fitted  within  the  moment  like  the  right 
word. 

"  It  don't  seem  like  anybody  could  mean  'em  to 
die  before  their  time,"  she  said.  "  Ain't  it  almost  as 
if  it  happened  when  Everything  somehow  couldn't 
help  it?" 

It  was  this,  the  tragedy  of  the  Unfulfilled  Inten- 
tion, that  was  in  my  mind  while  I  hollowed  the 


276        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

little  grave  under  the  hedge.  And  when  we  had 
finished,  my  neighbour,  who  had  stepped  informally 
over  the  box  to  help  me,  looked  up  with  a  return 
of  that  fleeting  expression  which  I  had  noted. 

"  I  guess  we've  found  one  now  for  sure,"  she 
said. 

"  Found  one  ?  "  I  puzzled. . 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  she  told  me.  "  I  thought 
everybody  knew  —  we've  been  looking  for  one  so 
long.  For  a  baby." 

She  never  had  told  me  and  no  one  had  told  me, 
but  I  loved  her  for  thinking  that  all  the  world  knew. 
There  are  abroad  a  multitude  of  these  sweet  sus- 
picions as  well  as  the  sad  misgivings  of  the  hunted. 
She  had  simply  let  me  know,  that  early  morning  in 
the  garden,  her  sorrow  that  there  was  "  no  little 
thing  runnin'  round."  And  now  she  told  me  for 
how  long  they  had  been  trying  to  find  one  to  adopt, 
consciously  serving  no  social  need,  but  simply  hun- 
gering for  a  child  whom  they  could  "  take  to."  It 
was  a  story  of  fruitless  visits  to  the  homes  in  the 
city,  the  news  sent  of  this  little  waif  or  that,  all 
proving  too  old  or  of  too  sad  an  inheritance.  To 
me  it  would  seem  that  the  more  tragic  the  inheri- 
tance the  more  poignantly  sounds  the  cry  for  foster- 
folk.  And  this  may  be  extreme,  I  know,  but  virtue, 
I  find,  does  not  lie  exclusively  in  the  mean,  either. 
It  lies  partly  in  one's  taste  in  extremes.  However, 


ADOPTION  277 

this  special  extreme  I  find  not  generally  believed  in 
as  I  believe  in  it ;  and  my  neighbour,  not  sharing  it, 
had  waited  on  with  empty  arms. 

And  now,  after  all  the  long  hoping,  she  had 
found  a  baby  —  a  baby  who  filled  all  the  require-, 
ments  and  more.  First  of  all,  he  was  a  boy ; 
second,  he  was  of  healthful  Scotch  parentage ;  third, 
he  was  six  weeks  old ;  and,  fondest  I  could  see  in 
my  neighbour's  heart,  he  was  good  to  look  at. 
When  she  told  me  this  she  produced,  from  beneath 
her  apron,  a  broken  picture  post-card.  The  baby 
was  lying  on  a  white  blanket  spread  on  the  grass, 
and  he  was  looking  up  with  the  intentness  of  some 
little  soul  not  yet  embodied  ;  or  as  if,  having  been 
born,  some  shadow-thing,  left  over  from  his  source 
of  shadows,  yet  detained  his  attention.  "  William," 
it  said  beneath  the  picture. 

"  But  I  shall  call  him  Kenneth,"  my  neighbour 
said;  "  I've  always  meant  to.  I  don't  want  he  should 
be  called  after  his  father,  being  he  isn't  ours,  you 
might  say.  But  he  is  ours,"  she  added  in  a  kind  of 
challenge.  "  He's  going  after  him  to-morrow  to  the 
city  "  —  and  now  "  he  "  meant  her  husband,  in  that 
fine  habit  of  use  by  these  husbands  and  wives  of  the 
two  third  persons  singular  to  mean  only  each  other, 
in  a  splendid,  ultimate,  inevitable  sense,  authentic  as 
the  "  we  "  of  a  sovereign,  no  more  to  be  mistaken. 
"  I'd  go  too,"  she  added,  "  but  we're  adopting  the 


278        FRIENDSHIP    VILLAGE    LOVE    STORIES 

baby  with  the  egg  money  —  we've  saved  it  for  years 
for  when  the  time  come.  And  one  fare  to  the  city 
and  back  is  a  lot  of  eggs.  I  thought  I'd  rather  wait 
for  him  here  and  have  the  ticket  money  to  spend  on 
the  clothes." 

She  was  on  her  way,  I  thought  I  guessed,  to  carry 
her  good  news  to  our  friends  in  the  village,  for  she 
bore  that  same  air  which  I  have  noted,  of  being  im- 
permanent and  subject  to  flight.  And  as  she  left 
me  she  turned  to  give  me  one  of  those  rare  compli- 
ments which  are  priceless. 

"  You  come  over  this  afternoon,"  she  said,  "  and 
I'll  show  you  what  little  things  I've  made." 

I  remember  another  compliment.  It  was  when, 
in  town,  a  charming  little  woman,  a  woman  all  of 
physical  curves  and  mental  tangents,  had  been  tell- 
ing a  group  of  us  about  a  gay  day  in  a  four-in-hand. 
She  had  not  looked  at  me  because  for  that  sort  of 
woman,  as  well  as  for  others,  I  lack  all  that  which 
would  make  them  take  account  of  my  presence; 
but  when  in  the  four-in-hand  she  came  to  some 
mention  of  the  road  where  the  accident  had  nearly 
occurred  ("  Oh,  it  was  a  beautiful  road,"  she  said, 
"  the  river  on  one  side,  and  the  highlands,  and  a 
whole  mob  of  trees,")  she  turned  straight  upon  me 
through  her  description  as  consistently  as  she  had 
neglected  me  when  she  described  the  elbow-bits  of 
the  leaders  and  the  boots  of  the  woman  on  the  box- 


ADOPTION  279 

seat.  It  may  have  been  a  chance,  but  I  have  always 
hugged  it  to  me. 

My  neighbour's  house  is  small,  and  her  little  up- 
stairs rooms  are  the  half- story  with  sloping  ceilings 
and  windows  which  extend  from  the  floor  to  the  top 
of  one's  head.  It  gives  me  a  curious  sense  of  over- 
familiarity  with  a  window  to  be  as  tall  as  it  is.  I  feel 
that  I  have  it  at  advantage  and  that  I  am  using  it 
with  undue  intimacy.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I 
used  to  creep  under  the  dining-room  table  and  sit 
there,  looking  up,  transfixed  at  the  difference.  A 
new  angle  of  material  vision,  the  sight  of  the  other 
side  of  the  shield,  always  gives  me  this  pause.  But 
whereas  this  other  aspect  of  things  used  to  be 
a  delight,  now,  in  life,  I  shrink  a  little  from  avail- 
ing myself  of  certain  revelations.  I  have  a  great 
wish  to  know  things,  but  I  would  know  them 
otherwise  than  by  looking  at  their  linings.  I  think 
that  even  a  window  should  be  sanctioned  in  its 
reticences. 

Before  a  black  walnut  commode  my  neighbour 
knelt  that  afternoon,  and  I  found  that  it  was  filled 
with  the  things  which  she  had  made  for  the  baby, 
when  they  should  find  him.  These  she  showed  to 
me  —  they  were  simple  and  none  too  fine,  and  she 
had  made  them  on  her  sewing-machine  in  the  in- 
tervals of  her  busy  life.  For  three  years  she  had 
wrought  at  them,  buying  them  from  the  egg  money. 


28o        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

I  wondered  if  this  secret  pastime  of  garment-making 
might  not  account  for  my  impression  of  her  that 
she  must  always  be  off  to  engage  in  something 
other.  Perhaps  it  was  this  occupation,  always  call- 
ing her,  which  would  not  let  her  appear  fixed  at 
garden-watering  or  festival.  I  think  that  it  may 
be  so  of  any  who  are  "  pressed  in  the  spirit "  to 
serve,  to  witness  to  any  truth:  that  is  their  voca- 
tion and  every  other  is  an  avocation,  a  calling  away 
from  the  real  business  of  life.  For  this  reason  it  is 
my  habit  to  think  of  the  social  workers  in  any  divi- 
sion of  the  service,  family  or  town  or  state  or 
church,  as  Vocationists.  It  is  they  who  are  follow- 
ing the  one  great  occupation.  The  rest  of  us  are 
avocationists.  In  my  neighbour  I  perceived  one 
of  the  great  comrade  company  of  the  Vocationists, 
unconscious  of  her  banner,  but  because  of  some 
sweet,  secret  piping,  following,  following  .  .  . 

"  I've  always  thought  I'd  get  to  do  a  little  em- 
broidering on  a  yoke  or  two,"  she  said,  "  but  so  far 
I  couldn't.  Anyway  I  thought  I  could  do  the  plain 
part  and  running  the  machine  before  he  came.  The 
other  I  could  sit  by  the  crib  and  do.  Embroidery 
seems  sort  o'  baby-watchin'  work,  don't  it  ?  " 

When  I  left  her  I  walked  across  the  lawns  to  my 
home  in  a  sense  of  security  and  peace.  With 
increasing  thousands  consciously  striving  and  pas- 
sioning to  help,  and  thousands  helping  because  of 


ADOPTION  281 

the  unconscious  spirit  within  them,  are  there  not 
many  windows  in  the  walls  ? 

"  He  "  was  to  go  by  the  Accommodation  early  next 
morning  to  bring  home  the  baby.  Therefore  when, 
just  before  seven  o'clock,  I  observed  my  neighbour's 
husband  leave  his  home  and  join  Peter  at  his  gate  as 
usual,  I  went  at  once  to  see  if  something  was  amiss. 

My  neighbour  was  having  breakfast  as  her  custom 
was  "  after  the  men-folks  were  out  of  the  way." 
At  all  events  she  was  pretending  to  eat.  I  saw  in 
her  eyes  that  something  was  troubling  her,  but  she 
greeted  me  cheerfully.  I  sat  by  the  sewing-machine 
while  she  went  on  with  her  pretence  at  breakfast. 

"  The  little  thing's  sick,"  she  said.  "  Last  night 
we  got  the  despatch.  c  Baby  in  hospital  for  day  or 
two.  Will  advise  often/  it  had  in  it.  I'm  glad 
they  put  that  in.  I'll  feel  better  to  know  they'll 
get  good  advice." 

I  sat  with  her  for  a  long  time,  regardless  of  my 
work  or  that  Miggy  was  waiting  for  me.  I  was 
struck  by  the  charm  of  matter-of-fact  hopefulness 
in  my  neighbour,  not  the  deliberate  forcing  of  hope, 
but  the  simple  expectation  that  nothing  tragic  would 
occur.  But  for  all  that  she  ate  no  breakfast,  and  I 
knew  well  the  faint,  quite  physical  sickness  that  she 
must  have  endured  since  the  message  came. 

"I'm  going  to  get  his  basket  ready  to-day,"  she 
said.  "  I  never  did  that,  two  reasons.  One  was,  it 


282        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

seemed  sort  of  taking  too  much  for  granted,  like 
heating  your  spider  before  the  meat  wagon  drives 
up.  The  other  reason  was  I  needed  the  basket  for 
the  clothes." 

I  stayed  with  her  while  she  made  ready  the 
clothes-basket,  lining  it  with  an  old  muslin  curtain, 
filling  it  with  pillows,  covering  it  with  the  afghan 
from  the  parlour  couch.  Then,  in  a  shoe  box 
edged  with  the  curtain's  broad  ruffle,  she  put  an 
array  of  little  things  :  the  brush  from  the  spare- 
room  bureau,  the  pincushion  from  her  own  work- 
basket,  a  sachet  bag  that  had  come  with  a  last 
year's  Christmas  gift,  a  cake  of  "  nice  soap  "  which 
she  had  kept  for  years  and  never  unwrapped  be- 
cause it  was  so  expensive.  And  then  she  added  a 
little  glass-stoppered  bottle  of  white  pills. 

"  I  don't  know  what  they're  for,"  she  said.  "  I 
found  them  when  I  housecleaned,  and  there  was  so 
many  of  'em  I  hated  to  throw  'em  away.  Of 
course  I'll  never  use  Jem,  but  they  look  sort  of  nice 
in  there  —  so  white  and  a  glass  cork  —  don't  you 
think  so  ? " 

She  walked  with  me  across  the  lawn  and  stood 
brooding,  one  hand  across  her  mouth,  looking  down 
at  the  disturbance  —  so  slight !  —  in  the  grass 
where  we  had  laid  the  bird.  And  on  her  face  was 
the  look  which,  each  time  that  I  saw  it  there,  drew 
me  nearer  to  her. 


ADOPTION  283 

"  'Seems  as  if  I'd  ought  to  be  there  to  the  hospi- 
tal," she  said,  "  doing  what  I  can.  Do  you  s'pose 
they'll  take  good  care  of  him  ?  I  guess  they  know 
more  about  it  than  I  do.  But  if  I  could  get  hold 
of  him  in  my  arms  it  seems  as  if  I  could  help  'em." 

I  said  what  I  could,  and  she  went  away  to  her 
house.  And  for  the  first  time  since  I  had  known 
her  she  did  not  seem  put  upon  to  be  back  at  some 
employment.  These  times  of  unwonted  idleness 
are  terrible  to  witness.  I  remember  a  farmer  whom 
I  once  saw  in  the  afternoon,  dressed  in  his  best, 
waiting  in  the  kitchen  for  the  hour  of  his  daughter's 
wedding,  and  I  wondered  that  the  great  hands  did 
not  work  of  their  own  will.  The  lost  aspect  of  cer- 
tain men  on  holidays,  the  awful  inactivity  of  the  day 
of  a  funeral,  the  sad  idleness  of  old  age,  all  these  are 
very  near  to  the  tragedy  of  negation.  Work,  the 
positive,  the  normal,  the  joyous,  is  like  an  added 
way  of  being.  I  thought  that  I  would  never  again 
marvel  at  my  neighbour  for  being  always  on  the 
edge  of  flight  to  some  pressing  occupation.  Why 
should  she  not  be  so  ?  —  with  all  that  there  is  to  be 
done.  Whether  we  rush  about,  or  conceal  the  need 
and  rush  secretly,  is  a  detail  of  our  breeding ;  the 
need  is  to  get  things  done,  to  become  by  doing. 
And  while  for  myself  I  would  prefer  the  accom- 
plishment of  not  seeming  to  hurry,  as  another  is 
accomplished  at  the  harp,  yet  I  own  that  I  would 


284        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

cheerfully  forego  the  pretty  grace  rather  than  find 
myself  without  some  slight  degree  of  the  robust 
proficiency  of  getting  things  done. 

"  If  you're  born  a  picture  in  a  book/'  Calliope 
once  said,  "  it's  all  very  well  to  set  still  on  the  page 
an'  hold  your  hands.  But  if  you're  born  anyways 
human  at  all,  stick  up  your  head  an'  start  out  for 
somewhere." 

My  neighbour  rarely  comes  to  my  house.  And 
therefore,  though  she  is  to  me  so  familiar  a  figure  in 
her  garden,  when  next  morning  I  found  her  await- 
ing me  in  my  sitting  room,  she  seemed  strange  to 
me.  Perhaps,  too,  she  was  really  strange  to  me  that 
day. 

"  My  baby  died,"  she  said. 

She  stood  there  looking  at  me,  and  I  knew  that 
what  she  said  was  true,  but  it  seemed  to  me  for  a 
moment  that  I  could  not  have  it  so. 

"  He  died  yesterday  in  the  evening,"  she  told  me. 
"  I  just  heard  this  morning,  when  the  telegraph  office 
opened.  I  dressed  myself  to  go  after  him,  but  he  s 
gone." 

"  To  go  after  him? "  I  repeated. 

She  nodded. 

"He  was  in  the  charity  part.  I  was  afraid  they'd 
bury  him  in  the  potter's  field  and  they  wouldn't  mark 
—  it,  and  that  I  couldn't  never  tell  which  one  it  was. 
So  I  want  to  get  him  and  have  him  buried  here. 


ADOPTION  285 

He  didn't  want  I  should  go  —  he  thought  it'd  be  too 
much  for  me.  But  I  was  bound  to,  so  he  says  he'd 
go.  They'd  ought  to  get  here  on  the  Five  o'Clock 
this  afternoon.  Oh,  if  I'd  went  yesterday,  do  you 
think  it  would  'a'  been  any  different?" 

There  I  could  comfort  her.  I  did  not  think  it 
would  have  been  different.  But  when  I  tried  to  tell 
her  how  much  better  it  was  this  way  than  that  the 
baby  should  first  have  come  to  her  and  then  have 
sickened,  she  would  have  none  of  it. 

"  I've  never  held  him  once,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
s'pose  anything  could  be  worse  than  that?  I'd 
rather  have  got  hold  of  him  once,  no  matter  what." 

It  touched  me  unutterably,  the  grief  of  this  mother 
who  was  no  mother.  I  had  no  knowledge  what  to 
say  to  her.  But  I  think  that  what  she  wanted  most 
was  companionship.  She  went  to  one  and  another 
and  another  of  our  neighbours  to  whom  she  had 
shown  so  happily  the  broken  post-card  picture,  and 
to  them  in  the  same  way  she  took  the  news :  — 

"  My  baby  died." 

And  I  was  amazed  to  find  how  in  this  little  time, 
the  tentacles  of  her  heart  having  fastened  and  clung, 
she  had  made  for  herself,  without  ever  having  seen 
the  child,  little  things  to  tell  about  him :  His  eyes 
were  so  bright;  the  sun  was  shining  and  the  picture 
was  made  out-of-doors,  yet  the  eyes  were  opened 
wide.  They  were  blue  eyes  —  had  she  told  us? 


286        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Had  we  noticed  the  hands  in  the  picture?  And  the 
head  was  a  beautiful  shape.  .  .  .  All  this  seemed 
to  me  marvellous.  For  I  saw  that  no  woman  ever 
mourns  for  any  child  dumbly,  as  a  bird  mourns  a 
fledgling,  but  even  if  she  never  sees  it,  she  will  yet 
contrive  some  little  tender  ways  to  give  it  person- 
ality and  to  cherish  it. 

They  did  their  best  to  comfort  her,  the  women  of 
the  village.  But  many  of  them  had  lost  little  chil- 
dren of  their  own,  and  these  women  could  not  regard 
her  loss  as  at  all  akin  to  theirs.  I  think  that  this  my 
neighbour  felt ;  and  perhaps  she  dimly  felt  that  to  me 
her  grief,  hardly  less  than  theirs,  brimmed  with  the 
tragic  disaster  of  the  unfulfilled  and  bore,  besides,  its 
own  peculiar  bitterness.  In  any  case  I  was  of  those 
who,  that  afternoon,  went  out  to  the  cemetery  to 
await  the  coming  of  my  neighbour  and  "  him  "  and 
their  little  burden.  Calliope  was  there,  and  Mis* 
Amanda  Toplady  and  Miggy  ;  and  when  it  was  time 
to  go  Little  Child  was  with  me,  so  she  went  too. 
For  I  am  not  of  those  who  keep  from  children 
familiarity  with  death.  Familiarity  with  the  ways 
of  death  I  would  spare  them,  but  not  the  basic 
things,  primal  as  day. 

"  I  don't  want  to  give  a  real  funeral,"my  neighbour 
had  said.  "I  just  want  the  few  that  I  tell  to  happen 
out  there  to  the  cemetery,  along  about  five.  And 
then  we'll  come  with  him.  It  seems  as  if  it'll  hurt  less 


ADOPTION  287 

that  way.  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  a  whole  line  driv- 
ing along,  and  me  look  back  and  know  who  it  was 
for." 

The  cemetery  had  the  dignity  and  serenity  of  a 
meadow,  a  meadow  still  somewhat  amazed  that  it 
had  been  for  a  while  distracted  from  its  ancient  uses, 
but,  after  all,  perceiving  no  permanent  difference  in 
its  function.  I  am  never  weary  of  walking  down 
these  grassy  streets  and  of  recounting  their  strange- 
nesses. As  that  of  the  headstone  of  David  Bib- 
ber's wives,  one  stone  extending  across  the  heads  of 
the  two  graves  and  at  either  end  of  the  stone  two 
Gothic  peaks  from  whose  inner  slopes  reach  two 
marble  hands,  clasped  midway,  and, 

SACRED   TO   THE   WIVES   OF   DAVID   BIBBER 

inscribed  below,  the  wifely  names  not  appearing  in 
the  epitaph.  And  that  of  Mark  Sturgis  who,  the 
village  said,  had  had  the  good  luck  to  marry  two 
women  named  Dora ;  so  he  had  erected  a  low  monu- 
ment to  "  Dora,  Beloved  Wife  of  Mark  Sturgis, 
Jr."  ("But  how  mixin'it  must  be  to  the  ghosts!" 
Calliope  said.)  And  of  the  young  girl  of  a  former 
Friendship  family  of  wealth,  a  girl  who  sleeps  beneath 
a  monument  on  which  stands  a  great  figure  of  a 
young  woman  in  a  white  marble  dress  made  with 
three  flounces.  ("  Honest,"  Calliope  had  put  it, 


288        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"you  can't  hardly  tell  whether  it's  a  tomb  or  a  valen- 
tine/') 

But  these  have  for  me  an  interest  less  of  the 
bizarre  than  of  the  human,  and  nothing  that  is  human 
was  alien  to  that  hour. 

We  waited  for  them  by  the  new  little  grave,  the 
disturbance  —  so  slight !  —  in  the  earth  where  we 
would  lay  the  stranger  baby.  Our  hands  were  rilled 
with  garden  flowers  —  Calliope  had  drawn  a  little 
hand  cart  laden  with  ferns  and  sweet-brier,  and  my 
dear  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  had  cut  all  the  half- 
blown  buds  from  her  loved  tea  rose. 

"  It  seems  like  a  little  baby  wasn't  real  dead  that 
I  hadn't  helped  lay  out,"  said  that  great  Mis'  Amanda, 
trying  to  find  her  handkerchief.  "  Oh,  I  wish't  it  was 
alive.  It  seems  like  such  a  little  bit  of  comin'  alive 
to  ask  the  Lord  !  " 

And  as  the  afternoon  shadows  drew  about  us 
with  fostering  arms, 

"  Out-Here  knows  we  feel  bad  more  than  Down 
Town,  don't  it  ?  "  said  Little  Child. 

I  have  always  thought  very  beautiful  that  village 
custom  of  which  I  have  before  spoken,  which  pro- 
vides that  the  father  and  mother  of  a  little  baby  who 
dies  may  take  it  with  them  in  a  closed  carriage  to  the 
grave.  It  was  so  that  my  neighbour  and  her  hus- 
band brought  their  baby  to  the  cemetery  from  the 
station,  with  the  little  coffin  on  their  knees. 


ADOPTION  289 

On  the  box  beside  the  driver  Peter  was  riding. 
We  learned  afterward  that  he  had  appeared  at  the 
station  and  had  himself  taken  that  little  coffin  from 
the  car.  "So  then  it  didn't  have  to  be  on  the  truck 
at  all/'  my  neighbour  noted  thankfully  when  she  told 
me.  I  think  that  it  must  be  this  living  with  only  a 
street  or  two  between  folk  and  the  open  country 
which  gives  these  unconscious  sharpenings  of  sensi- 
bility often,  otherwhere,  bred  only  by  old  niceties  of 
habit. 

So  little  Kenneth  was  buried,  who  never  had  the 
name  save  in  unreality ;  whom  my  neighbour  had 
never  tended ;  who  lived  for  her  only  in  dream  and 
on  that  broken  post-card  and  here  in  the  hidden 
dust.  It  made  her  grief  so  sad  a  thing  that  her 
arms  did  not  miss  him ;  nor  had  he  slipped  from 
any  usage  of  the  day ;  nor  was  any  link  broken 
with  the  past ;  only  the  plans  that  had  hung  in  air 
had  gone  out,  like  flames  which  had  kindled  noth- 
ing. Because  of  this  she  sorrowed  from  within 
some  closed  place  at  which  her  husband  could  only 
guess,  who  stood  patiently  without  in  his  .embar- 
rassed concern,  his  clumsy  anxiety  to  do  what 
there  was  to  be  done,  his  wondering  distress  at  his 
wife's  drooping  grief.  But  her  sorrow  was  rooted 
in  the  love  of  women  for  the  "  little  young  thing, 
runnin'  round,"  for  which  she  had  long  passioned. 

"  Oh,  God,  who  lived  in  the  spirit  of  the  little 


290        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

Lord  Jesus,  live  Thou  in  this  child's  spirit,  and  it 
in  Thee,  world  without  end,"  Doctor  June  prayed. 
And  Little  Child  whispered  to  me  and  then  went  to 
let  fall  a  pink  in  the  grave.  "  So  if  the  flower  gets 
to  be  an  angel  flower,  then  they  can  go  round  to- 
gether," she  explained. 

When  I  looked  up  there  were  in  the  west  the 
first  faint  heraldings  of  rose.  And  against  it  stood 
Miggy  and  Peter,  side  by  side,  looking  down  this 
new  way  of  each  other's  lives  which  took  account 
of  sorrow.  He  said  something  to  her,  and  she 
nodded,  and  gave  him  her  white  hollyhocks  to  lay 
with  the  rest.  And  as  they  turned  away  together 
Little  Child  whispered  to  me,  pulling  herself,  by 
my  arm,  to  high  tiptoe :  — 

"  That  little  child  we  put  in  the  sunset/'  she  said, 
nodding  to  the  west,  "it's  there  now.  It's  there 
now ! " 

Perhaps  it  was  that  my  heart  was  filled  with  the 
tragedy  of  the  unfulfilled  intention,  perhaps  it  was 
that  I  thought  that  Little  Child's  whispering  was 
true.  In  any  case  I  hastened  my  steps,  and  as  we 
passed  out  on  the  road  I  overtook  Miggy  and  Peter. 

"  Peter,"  said  I,  "  may  Miggy  and  I  come  to  pay 
you  that  visit  now,  on  the  way  back  ? " 

Miggy  looked  startled. 

"  It's  supper  time,"  she  objected. 

Who  are  we  that  we  should  interrupt  a  sunset,  or 


ADOPTION  291 

a  situation,  or  the  stars  in  their  courses,  merely  to 
sup  ?  Neither  Miggy  nor  I  belong  to  those  who 
do  so.  Besides,  we  had  to  pass  Peter's  very  door. 
I  said  so,  and  all  the  time  Peter's  face  was  glowing. 

"  Hurry  on  ahead,"  I  bade  him,  "  and  Miggy  and 
Little  Child  and  I  will  come  in  your  house  to  call." 

He  looked  at  me  gratefully,  and  waited  for  good 
night  to  my  neighbour,  and  went  swiftly  away  down 
the  road  toward  the  sunset. 

"  Oh,  goody  grand,  goody  grand,"  Little  Child 
went  on  softly,  in  an  invocation  of  her  own  to  some 
secret  divinity  of  her  pleasure.  "  Oh,  that  little 
child  we  put  there,  it's  talkin'  to  the  sky,  an'  I  guess 
that  makes  sunset  be  ! " 

My  neighbour  was  looking  back  across  the  tran- 
quil meadow  which  might  have  been  deep  with  sum- 
mer hay  instead  of  mounded  to  its  sad  harvest. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  I  could  have  had  his  little 
grave  in  my  garden,  same  as  you  would  a  bird. 
Still  I  s'pose  a  cemet'ry  is  a  cemet'ry  and  had  ought 
to  be  buried  in.  But  oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  to  have  him  here  in  Friendship  Village.  It's 
better  to  think  about,  ain't  it  ?  " 

But  the  thing  that  gripped  my  heart  was  to  see 
her,  beside  her  husband,  go  down  the  road  and  not 
hurry.  All  that  bustling  impermanence  was  fallen 
from  her.  I  think  that  now  I  am  becoming  thank- 
ful for  every  one  who  goes  busily  quickening  the  day 


292        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

with  a  multitude,  yes,  even  with  a  confusion,  of 
homely,  cheerful  tasks. 

Miggy  slipped  her  hand  within  my  arm. 

"  Did  you  think  of  it?  "  she  said.  "  IVe  been,  all 
the  time.  It's  most  the  same  with  her  as  it  would 
be  to  me  if  I'd  lost  her.  You  know  .  .  .  that  little 
Margaret.  I  mean,  if  she  should  never  be/' 

As  when  one  hears  the  note  of  an  oriole  ringing 
from  the  innermost  air,  so  now  it  seems  to  me  that 
after  these  things  the  deeps  of  air  can  never  again  be 
wholly  alien  to  me. 


XVIII 

AT    PETER'S   HOUSE 

I  WONDERED  somewhat  that  Peter  did  not  come 
out  of  his  house  to  fetch  us.  He  was  not  even  about 
the  little  yard  when  we  went  up  the  walk,  though  he 
knew  that  we  must  arrive  but  a  few  moments  after  he 
did.  Little  Child  ran  away  to  pick  Bouncing  Bet 
and  Sweet  Clover  in  the  long,  rank  grass  of  the  un- 
kept  garden.  And  Miggy  and  I  went  and  stood  on 
the  porch  before  Peter's  door,  and  I  knew  what  I 
intended. 

"  Rap  !  "  I  said  to  Miggy. 

She  looked  at  me  in  surprise  —  I  have  not  often 
commanded  her  like  that.  But  I  wanted  to  see  her 
stand  at  Peter's  door  asking  for  admission.  And  I 
think  that  Peter  had  wanted  it  too  and  that  this 
was  why  he  had  not  come  to  the  gate  to  fetch  us. 
I  guessed  it  by  the  light  on  his  face  when,  in  the 
middle  of  Miggy's  knock,  he  caught  open  the  door. 
I  like  to  remember  his  face  as  it  looked  at  that 
moment,  with  the  little  twist  of  mouth  and  lifting 
of  brow  which  gave  him  a  peculiar  sweetness  and 

293 


294        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

naivete,  curiously  contradicted  by  the  way  his  eyes 
were  when  they  met  Miggy's. 

"  How  long  it  took  you,"  he  said.  "  Come  in. 
Come  in." 

We  went  in,  and  I  looked  at  Miggy.  For  I  did 
not  want  her  to  step  in  that  house  as  she  would  have 
stepped  in  a  house  that  was  just  a  house.  Is  it  not 
wonderful  how  some  front  doors  are  Front  Doors 
Plus  ?  I  do  not  know  plus  what  —  that  is  one  of 
those  good  little  in-between  things  which  we  know 
without  always  naming.  But  there  are  some  front 
doors  which  are  to  me  boards  and  glass  and  a  tinkling 
cymbal  bell ;  while  other  doors  of  no  better  archi- 
tecture let  me  within  dear  depths  of  homes  which 
are  to  houses  what  friends  are  to  inhabitants.  It 
was  so  that  I  would  have  had  Miggy  go  within 
Peter's  house,  —  not  as  within  doors,  but  as  within 
arms. 

We  entered  directly  from  the  porch  into  the 
small  parlour  —  the  kind  of  man's  parlour  that 
makes  a  woman  long  to  take  it  on  her  lap  and  tend 
it.  There  were  no  curtains.  Between  the  windows 
was  a  big  table  filled  with  neat  piles  of  newspapers 
and  weeklies  till  there  should  be  time  to  look  them 
over.  The  shelf  had  a  lamp,  not  filled,  a  clock, 
not  going,  and  a  pile  of  seed  catalogues.  On  two 
walls  were  three  calendars  with  big  hollyhocks  and 
puppies  and  ladies  in  sunbonnets.  The  entire  inner 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  295 

wall  was  occupied  by  a  map  of  the  state  —  why  does 
a  man  so  cherish  a  map  of  something,  hung  up 
somewhere  ?  On  the  organ  -was  a  row  of  blue 
books  —  what  is  it  that  men  are  always  looking 
for  in  blue  books  ?  In  a  corner,  on  the  floor,  stood 
a  shotgun.  The  wood  stove  had  been  "left  up"  all 
summer  to  save  putting  it  up  in  the  fall  —  this 
business  of  getting  a  stove  on  rollers  and  jacking 
it  up  and  remembering  where  it  stood  so  that  the 
pipe  will  fit  means,  in  the  village,  a  day  of  annual 
masculine  sacrifice  to  the  feminine  foolishness  of 
wanting  stoves  down  in  summer.  There  was  noth- 
ing disorderly  about  the  room  ;  but  it  was  dressed 
with  no  sash  or  hair  ribbon  or  coral  beads,  as  a  man 
dresses  his  little  girl. 

"  We  don't  use  this  room  much,"  Peter  said. 
"  We  sit  in  here  sometimes  in  summer,  but  I  think 
when  a  man  sits  in  his  parlour  he  always  feels  like 
he  was  being  buried  from  it,  same  as  they're  used 
for." 

"Why  — "  said  Miggy,  and  stopped.  What 
she  was  going  to  say  it  was  not  important  to  know, 
but  I  was  glad  that  she  had  been  going  to  say  it. 
Something,  perhaps,  about  this  being  a  very  pretty 
room  if  there  were  somebody  to  give  it  a  touch  or 
two. 

Peter  was  obviously  eager  to  be  in  the  next  room, 
and  that,  he  explained,  would  have  been  the  dining 


296        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

room,  only  he  had  taken  it  for  his  own,  and  they 
ate  in  the  kitchen.  I  think  that  I  had  never  heard 
him  mention  his  father  at  all,  and  this  "  we  "  of  his 
now  was  a  lonelier  thing  than  any  lonely  "  I." 

"  This  is  my  room,"  he  said  as  we  entered  it. 
"  It's  where  I  live  when  I'm  not  at  the  works. 
Come  and  let  me  show  you." 

So  Peter  showed  Miggy  his  room,  and  he  showed 
it  to  me,  too,  though  I  do  not  think  that  he  was 
conscious  of  that.  It  was  a  big  room,  bare  of  floor 
and,  save  for  the  inescapable  flowery  calendar,  bare 
of  walls.  There  was  a  shelf  of  books  —  not  many, 
but  according  to  Peter's  nature  sufficiently  well-se- 
lected to  plead  for  him  :  "  Look  at  us.  Who  could 
love  us  and  not  be  worth  while  ?"  —  bad  enough  logic, 
in  all  conscience,  to  please  any  lover.  Miggy  hardly 
looked  at  the  books.  She  so  exasperatingly  took  it 
for  granted  that  a  man  must  be  everything  in  general 
that  it  left  hardly  anything  for  him  to  be  in  particu- 
lar. But  Peter  made  her  look,  and  he  let  me  look 
too,  and  I  supplied  the  comments  and  Miggy  occa- 
sionally did  her  three  little  nods.  The  writing  table 
Peter  had  made  from  a  box,  and  by  this  Miggy  was 
equally  untouched.  All  men,  it  appeared,  should  be 
able  to  make  writing  tables  from  boxes.  With  the 
linen  table  cover  it  was  a  little  different  —  this  Peter's 
mother  had  once  worked  in  cross-stitch  for  his  room, 
and  Miggy  lifted  an  end  and  looked  at  it. 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  297 

"  She  took  all  those  stitches  for  you  !  "  she  said. 
"  There's  one  broken,"  she  showed  him. 

"  I  can  mend  that,"  Peter  said  proudly,  "  I'll  show 
you  my  needle  kit." 

At  this  she  laughed  out  suddenly  with,  "  Needle 
kit!  What  a  real  regular  old  bachelor  you  are, 
aren't  you  ? " 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Peter,  with  "and  the 
same  cannot  be  said  for  you  "  sticking  from  the 
sentence. 

On  the  table  lay  the  cannery  account  books,  and 
one  was  open  at  a  full  page  of  weary  little  figures. 

"Is  this  where  you  sit  nights  and  do  your  work 
and  read  ?  "  Miggy  demanded. 

"  Right  here,"  Peter  told  her,  "  every  night  of 
the  year,  'most.  Except  when  I  come  to  see  you." 

Miggy  stood  looking  at  the  table  and  the  wooden 
chair. 

"  That's  funny,"  she  remarked  finally,  with  an 
air  of  meditative  surprise  ;  "  they  know  you  so  much 
better  than  I  do,  don't  they  ? " 

"  Well,"  Peter  said  gravely,  "  they  haven't  been 
thought  about  as  much  as  you  have,  Miggy  —  that's 
one  thing." 

"  Thinking's  nothing,"  said  Miggy,  merrily ; 
"sometimes  you  get  a  tune  in  your  head  and  you 
can't  get  it  out." 

"  Sit  down    at   the  table,"  said  Peter,  abruptly. 


298        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE    STORIES 

"  Sit  down  !  "  he  repeated,  when  her  look  questioned 
him.  "  I  want  to  see  you  there." 

She  obeyed  him,  laughing  a  little,  and  quite  in  the 
woman's  way  of  pretending  that  obedience  is  a 
choice.  Peter  looked  at  her.  It  is  true  that  he 
had  been  doing  nothing  else  all  the  while,  but  now 
that  she  sat  at  the  table  —  his  table  —  he  looked 
more  than  before. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  well,  well."  As  a  man  says 
when  he  has  a  present  and  has  no  idea  what  to  say 
about  it. 

Peter's  photographs  were  on  the  wall  above  the 
table,  and  Peter  suddenly  leaned  past  Miggy  and 
took  down  the  picture  of  his  mother  and  put  it  in 
her  hand,  without  saying  anything.  For  the  first 
time  Miggy  met  his  eyes. 

"  Your  mother,"  she  said,  "  why,  Peter.  She 
looked  —  oh,  Peter,  she  looked  like  you  !  " 

Peter  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  do  look  like  she  did," 
he  said  ;  "  I'm  always  so  glad." 

"  She  knew  you  when  you  were  a  little  bit  of  a 
baby,  Peter,"  Miggy  advanced  suddenly. 

Peter  admitted  it  gravely.     She  had. 

"  Well,"  said  Miggy,  as  Peter  had  said  it.    "  Well." 

There  was  a  picture  of  Peter's  father  as  a  young 
man,  —  black,  curly-haired,  black-moustached,  the 
cheeks  slightly  tinted  in  the  picture,  his  hands  laid 
trimly  along  his  knees.  The  face  was  weak,  empty, 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  299 

but  it  held  that  mere  confidence  of  youth  which  al- 
ways gives  a  special  sting  to  the  grief  of  unfulfil- 
ment.  Over  this  they  passed,  saying  nothing.  It 
struck  me  that  in  the  delicacy  of  that  silence  it  was 
almost  as  if  Miggy  shared  something  with  Peter. 
Also,  it  struck  me  pleasantly  that  Miggy's  indiffer- 
ence to  the  personalities  of  divers  aunts  in  straight 
bangs  and  long  basques  was  slightly  exaggerated, 
especially  when,  "  I  never  thought  about  your  hav- 
ing any  aunts,"  she  observed. 

And  then  Peter  took  down  a  tiny  picture  of  the 
sort  we  call  in  the  village  "  card  size,"  and  gave  it  to 
her. 

"  Guess  who,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  little  boy  of  not  more  than  five,  in  a 
straight  black  coat  dress,  buttoned  in  the  front  and 
trimmed  with  broad  black  velvet  strips,  and  having 
a  white  scalloped  collar  and  white  cuffs.  One  hand 
was  resting  on  the  back  of  a  camp-chair  and  the 
other  held  a  black  helmet  cap.  The  shoes  had 
double  rows  of  buttons,  and  for  some  secret  reason 
the  photographer  had  had  the  child  laboriously  cross 
one  foot  negligently  over  the  other.  The  fine  head, 
light-curled,  was  resting  in  the  horns  of  that  ex-device 
that  steadied  one  out  of  all  semblance  to  self.  But 
in  spite  of  the  man  who  had  made  the  picture,  the 
little  boy  was  so  wholly  adorable  that  you  wanted 
to  say  so. 


300        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE    LOVE   STORIES 

"  Peter  !  "  Miggy  said,  "  It's  you" 

I  do  not  know  how  she  knew.  I  think  that  I 
would  not  have  known.  But  Miggy  knew,  and  her 
knowing  made  me  understand  something  which  evi- 
dently she  herself  did  not  understand.  For  she 
looked  at  the  picture  and  looked  at  it,  a  strange, 
surprised  smile  on  her  face.  And, 

"  Well,  well,  well"  she  said  again.  "  I  never 
thought  about  that  before.  I  mean  about  you. 
Then."  . 

"  Would  — would  you  want  that  picture,  Miggy  ? " 
Peter  asked  ;  "  you  can  have  it  if  you  do." 

"Can  I  really?"  said  Miggy.  "Well,  I  do 
want  it.  Goodness  .  .  ." 

"  I  always  kind  of  thought,"  Peter  said  slowly, 
"  that  when  I  have  a  son  he'll  look  something  like 
that.  He  might,  you  know." 

Peter  was  leaning  beside  her,  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  Miggy  looked  up  at  him  over  the  picture  of  the 
childj  and  made  her  three  little  nods. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  would  want  your  little  boy 
to  look  like  you." 

"  And  I'd  want  him  named  Peter.  It's  a  homely 
old  name,  but  I'd  want  him  to  have  it." 

"  Peter  isn't  a  homely  name,"  said  Miggy,  in  a 
manner  of  surprise.  "  Yes,  of  course  you'd  want 
him  —  " 

The  sentence  fell  between  them  unfinished.    And 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  301 

I  thought  that  Miggy's  face,  still  somewhat  saddened 
by  the  little  Kenneth  and  now  tender  with  its  look 
for  the  picture,  was  lightly  touched  with  a  glowing 
of  colour.  But  then  I  saw  that  this  would  be  the 
light  of  the  sunset  on  her  cheeks,  for  now  the  West 
was  become  a  glory  of  rose  and  yellow,  so  that  it 
held  captive  her  eyes.  It  is  too  frail  a  thing  for  me 
to  have  grasped  by  sense,  but  the  Moment  seemed 
to  say  —  and  could  give  no  reason — that  our  sunset 
compact  Miggy  kept  then  without  remembering  the 
compact. 

It  almost  startled  me  when  out  in  the  unkept 
garden  Little  Child  began  to  sing.  We  had  nearly 
forgotten  her  and  we  could  not  see  her,  so  that 
she  might  have  been  any  other  little  child  wander- 
ing in  the  sweet  clover,  or  merely  a  little  voice  com- 
ing in  with  the  western  light :  — 

"I  like  to  stand  in  this  great  air 
And  see  the  sun  go  down. 
It  shows  me  a  bright  veil  to  wear 
And  such  a  pretty  gown. 
Oh,  I  can  see  a  playmate  there 
Far  up  in  Splendour  Town  ! " 

"  Look  here,"  said  Peter  to  Miggy ;  and  I  went 
over  to  the  sunset  window  and  let  them  go  on  alone. 

He  led  her  about  the  room,  and  she  still  had  the 
little  picture  in  her  hand.  From  the  bureau,  with 
its  small  array  of  cheap  brushes  and  boxes,  she 


302        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

turned  abruptly  away.  I  think  that  she  may  have 
felt  as  I  felt  about  the  splash  of  rose  on  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak's  throat — that  I  ought  not  to  have 
been  looking.  Beyond  was  a  little  old  dry-goods  box 
for  odds  and  ends,  a  box  which  must  have  known,  with 
a  kind  of  feminine  intelligence,  that  it  ought  to  be 
covered  with  cretonne.  On  this  box  Miggy  knelt 
to  read  Peter's  high  school  diploma,  and  she  stopped 
before  a  picture  of  the  house  where  he  was  born. 
"Was  it  there?"  she  asked.  "Doesn't  that  seem 
funny?"  Which  manifestly  it  did  not  seem.  ^  Is 
that  where  your  violin  lives  ?"  she  asked,  when  they 
came  to  its  corner  —  surely  a  way  of  betrayal  that 
she  had  thought  of  it  as  living  somewhere  else. 
And  all  the  while  she  carried  the  picture  in  her 
hand,  and  the  sunset  glorified  the  room,  and  Little 
Child  was  singing  in  the  garden. 

"  Peter,"  said  Miggy,  "I  don't  believe  a  man  who 
can  play  the  violin  can  sew.  Give  me  the  needle 
kit.  I'm  going  to  mend  the  table  cover —  may  I  ?" 

Might  she  !  Peter,  his  face  shining,  brought  out 
his  red  flannel  needle-book  —  he  kept  it  on  the 
shelf  with  his  shaving  things  !  —  and,  his  face  shin- 
ing more,  sat  on  a  creaking  camp-chair  and  watched 
her. 

"  Miggy,"  he  said,  as  she  caught  the  threads  skil- 
fully together,  "  I  don't  believe  I've  ever  seen  you 
sew.  I  know  I  never  have." 


AT   PETER'S    HOUSE  303 

"  This  isn't  sewing,"  Miggy  said. 

"  It's  near  enough  like  it  to  suit  me,"  said  Peter. 

He  drew  a  breath  long,  and  looked  about  him.  I 
knew  how  he  was  seeing  the  bare  room,  lamp-lighted, 
and  himself  trying  to  work  in  spite  of  the  longing 
that  teased  and  possessed  him  and  bade  him  give  it 
up  and  lean  back  and  think  of  her ;  or  of  tossing  on 
the  hard  couch  in  the  tyranny  of  living  his  last  hour 
with  her  and  of  living,  too,  the  hours  that  might 
never  be.  And  here  she  was  in  this  room  —  his 
room.  Peter  dropped  his  head  on  his  hand  and 
his  eyes  did  not  leave  her  face  save  to  venture  an 
occasional  swift,  ecstatic  excursion  to  her  fingers. 

Simply  and  all  quietly,  as  Nature  sends  her  gifts, 
miracles  moved  toward  completion  while  Miggy 
sewed.  The  impulse  to  do  for  him  this  trifling  ser- 
vice was  like  a  signal,  and  when  she  took  up  the 
needle  for  him  I  think  that  women  whose  hands  had 
long  lain  quiet  stirred  within  her  blood.  As  for 
Peter  —  but  these  little  housewifely  things  which 
enlighten  a  woman  merely  tease  a  man,  who  already 
knows  their  import  and  longs  for  all  sweet  fragments 
of  time  to  be  merged  in  the  long  possession. 

Miggy  gave  the  needle  back  to  Peter  and  he 
took  it —  needle,  red  book,  and  hand. 

"  Miggy  !  "  he  said,  and  the  name  on  his  lips  was 
like  another  name.  And  it  was  as  if  she  were  in 
some  place  remote  and  he  were  calling  her. 


304        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  knew  the  call.  Since 
the  world  began,  only  for  one  reason  does  a  man 
call  a  woman  like  that. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  she  said  —  and  her 
voice  was  very  sweet  and  very  tired. 

"  I  want  more  of  you  I  "  said  Peter  Gary. 

She  may  have  tried  to  say  something,  but  her 
voice  trembled  away. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  everything  —  your  com- 
ing here  to-day,"  Peter  said.  "  I've  wanted  it  and 
wanted  it.  And  what  does  it  amount  to  ?  Noth- 
ing, except  to  make  me  wild  with  wanting  you  never 
to  go  away.  I  dread  to  think  of  your  leaving  me 
here — shutting  the  door  and  being  gone.  If  it 
was  just  plain  wanting  you  I  could  meet  that,  and 
beat  it,  like  I  do  the  things  down  to  the  works. 
But  it  isn't  that.  It's  like  it  was  something  big — 
bigger  than  me,  and  outside  of  me,  and  it  gets  hold 
of  me,  and  it's  like  it  asked  for  you  without  my 
knowing.  I  can't  do  anything  that  you  aren't 
some  of  it.  It  isn't  fair,  Miggy.  I  want  more 
of  you  —  all  of  you  —  all  the  time,  Miggy,  all 
the  time.  .  .  ." 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  Miggy's  face  when  she 
looked  at  Peter,  whose  eyes  were  giving  her  every- 
thing and  were  asking  everything  of  her;  but  I  was 
studying  the  sunset,  glory  upon  glory,  to  match  the 
glory  here.  And  the  singing  of  Little  Child  began 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  305 

again,  like  that  of  a  little  voice  vagrant  in  the  red 

west.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  I  can  see  a  playmate  there, 
Far  up  in  Splendour  Town ! '  * 

Miggy  heard  her,  and  remembered. 

"  Peter,  Peter  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  couldn't —  I  never 
could  bring  us  two  on  you  to  support." 

Peter  gave  her  hands  a  little  shake,  as  if  he  would 
have  shaken  her.  I  think  that  he  would  have 
shaken  her  if  it  had  been  two  or  three  thousand 
years  earlier  in  the  world's  history. 

"  You  two  !  "  he  cried ;  "  why,  Miggy,  when  we 
marry  do  I  want  —  or  do  you  want —  that  it  should 
stay  just  you  and  me  ?  We  want  children.  I  want 
you  for  their  mother  as  much  as  I  want  you  for  my 
wife." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  paramount,  compelling 
spirit,  the  sovereign  voice  of  the  Family,  calling 
through  the  wilderness.  Peter  knew, — this  fine,  vital 
boy  seeking  his  own  happiness  ;  he  gropingly  under- 
stood this  mighty  thing,  and  he  was  trying  his  best 
to  serve  it.  And,  without  knowing  that  she  knew, 
Miggy  knew  too  .  .  .  and  the  seal  that  she  knew 
was  in  what  was  in  the  sunset.  And  as  far  removed 
from  these  things  as  the  sunset  itself  was  all  Miggy's 
cheap  cynicism  about  love  and  all  the  triviality  of  her 
criticism  of  Peter. 

Miggy  stood  motionless,  looking  at  Peter.     And 


306        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

then,  like  an  evil  spell  which  began  to  work,  another 
presence  was  in  the  room.  ... 

Somewhile  before  I  had  begun  to  hear  the  sound, 
as  a  faint  undercurrent  to  consciousness ;  an  unim- 
portant, unpleasant,  insisting  sound  that  somehow 
interfered.  Gradually  it  had  come  nearer  and  had 
interfered  more  and  had  mingled  harshly  with  the 
tender  treble  of  Little  Child.  Now,  from  Peter's 
gate  the  sound  besieged  my  ears  and  entered  the 
room  and  explained  itself  to  us  all  — 

"  My  Mary  Anna  Mary,  what  you  mean  I  never  know, 
You  don't  make  me  merry,  very,  but  you  make  me  sorry,  oh — " 

the  "  oh "  prolonged,  undulatory,  exploring  the 
air.  .  .  . 

I  knew  what  it  was,  and  they  knew.  At  the 
sound  of  his  father's  voice,  drunken,  piteous,  Peter 
dropped  Miggy's  hands  and  his  head  went  down 
and  he  stood  silent,  like  a  smitten  thing.  My  own 
heart  sank,  for  I  knew  what  Miggy  had  felt,  and  I 
thought  I  knew  what  she  would  feel  now.  So  here 
was  another  unfulfilled  intention,  another  plan  gone 
astray  in  an  unperfected  order. 

Peter  had  turned  somewhat  away  before  he  spoke. 

"  I'll  have  to  go  now,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  guess 
you'll  excuse  me." 

He  went  toward  the  kitchen  door  ashamed,  mis- 
erable, all  the  brightness  and  vitality  gone  from 


AT   PETER'S   HOUSE  307 

him.  I  am  sorry  that  he  did  not  see  Miggy's  face 
when  she  lifted  it.  I  saw  it,  and  I  could  have  sung 
as  I  looked.  Not  for  Peter  or  for  Miggy,  but  for 
the  sake  of  something  greater  than  they,  something 
that  touched  her  hand,  commanded  "  Look  at  me," 
bade  her  follow  with  us  all. 

Before  Peter  reached  the  door  she  overtook 
him,  stood  before  him,  put  her  hands  together 
for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  one  swiftly  on  his 
cheek. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "that  don't  make  any  differ- 
ence. That  don't  make  any  difference." 

No  doubt  he  understood  her  words,  but  I  think 
what  he  understood  best  was  her  hand  on  his  cheek. 
He  caught  her  shoulders  and  looked  and  looked.  .  .  . 

"Honest  —  honest,  don't  it?"  he  searched   her. 

You  would  not  have  said  that  her  answer  to  that 
was  wholly  direct.  She  only  let  fall  her  hand 
from  his  cheek  to  his  shoulder,  and, 

"  Peter,"  she  said,  "is  it  like  this?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  simply,  "  it's  like  this." 

And  then  what  she  said  was  ever  so  slightly  muf- 
fled, as  if  at  last  she  had  dropped  her  head  in  that 
sweet  confusion  which  she  had  never  seemed  to 
know ;  as  if  at  last  she  was  looking  at  Peter  as  if  he 
was  Peter. 

"Then  I  don't  ever  want  to  be  any  place  where 
you  aren't,"  she  told  him. 


3o8        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  Miggy !  "  Peter  cried,  "  take  care  what  you  say. 
Remember  —  he'd  live  with  us." 

She  made  her  three  little  nods. 

"  So  he  will,"  she  answered,  "  so  he  will.  He 
—  and  my  little  sister  —  and  all  of  us." 

Peter's  answer  was  a  shout. 

"Say  it  out !  "  he  cried,  "  say  you  will.  Miggy  ! 
I've  got  to  hear  you  say  it  out ! " 

"  Peter,  Peter,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  marry  you." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  in  the  room  was  the 
glory  upon  glory  of  the  west,  a  thing  of  wings  and 
doors  ajar.  And  strong  as  the  light,  there  prevailed 
about  them  the  soul  of  the  Family,  that  distributes 
burdens,  shares  responsibilities,  accepts  what  is  and 
what  is  to  come.  Its  voice  was  in  the  voice  of  Little 
Child  singing  in  the  garden,  and  of  old  Gary  babbling 
at  the  gate.  Its  heart  was  the  need  of  Peter  and 
Miggy,  each  for  the  other.  I  saw  in  their  faces 
the  fine  freedoms  of  the  sunset,  that  sunset  where 
Miggy  and  Little  Child  and  I  had  agreed  that  a 
certain  spirit  lives.  And  it  did  but  tally  with  the 
momentous  utterance  of  these  things  and  of  the 
evening  when  Miggy  spoke  again. 

"Go  now — you  go  to  him,"  she  said,  "we'll 
wait.  And  —  Peter  —  when  you  come  back,  I  want 
to  see  everything  in  the  room  again." 


XIX 

THE    CUSTODIAN 

WHEN  the  river  is  low,  a  broad,  flat  stone  lying  a 
little  way  from  shore  at  the  foot  of  our  lawn  becomes 
an  instrument  of  music.  In  the  day  it  plays  now  a 
rhapsody  of  sun,  now  a  nocturne  of  cloud,  now  the 
last  concerto,  Opus  Eternal.  In  the  night  it  becomes 
a  little  friendly  murmur,  a  cradle  song,  slumber 
spell,  neighbour  to  the  Dark,  the  alien  Dark  who 
very  likely  grows  lonely,  being  the  silent  sister, 
whereas  the  Light  goes  on  blithely  companioned  of 
us  all.  But  if  I  were  the  Dark  and  owned  the 
stars,  and  the  potion  which  quickens  conscience,  and 
the  sense  of  the  great  Spirit  brooding,  brooding,  I 
do  not  know  that  I  would  exchange  and  be  the 
Light.  Still,  the  Light  has  rainbows  and  toil  and 
the  sun  and  laughter.  .  .  .  After  all,  it  is  best  to 
be  a  human  being  and  to  have  both  Light  and  Dark- 
ness for  one's  own.  And  it  is  concerning  this  con- 
clusion that  the  river  plays  on  its  instrument  of 
music,  this  shallow  river 

"  —  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals." 

309 


3io        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE    LOVE   STORIES 

I  have  heard  our  bank  cat-birds  in  the  willows 
sing  madrigals  to  the  stone-music  until  I  wanted  to 
be  one  of  them  —  cat-bird,  madrigal,  shallows,  or 
anything  similar.  But  the  human  is  perhaps  what 
all  these  are  striving  to  express,  and  so  I  have  been 
granted  wish  within  wish,  and  life  is  very  good. 

Life  was  very  good  this  summer  afternoon  when 
half  the  village  gathered  on  our  lawn  above  the  sing- 
ing stone,  at  Miggy's  and  Peter's  "  Announcement 
Supper."  To  be  sure,  all  Friendship  Village  had 
for  several  days  had  the  news  and  could  even  tell 
you  when  the  betrothal  took  place  and  where  ;  but 
the  two  were  not  yet  engaged,  as  Miggy  would  have 
said,  "  out  loud." 

"  What  is  engaged  ?  "  asked  Little  Child,  who  was 
the  first  of  my  guests  to  arrive,  and  came  bringing 
an  offering  of  infinitesimal  flowers  which  she  finds  in 
the  grass  where  I  think  that  they  bloom  for  no  one 
else. 

"  It  means  that  people  love  each  other  very  much 
I  began,  and  got  no  further. 

"  Oh,  goody  grand,"  cried  Little  Child.  "  Then 
I'm  engaged,  aren't  I  ?  To  everybody." 

Whenever  she  leads  me  in  deep  water,  I  am  ac- 
customed to  invite  her  to  a  dolphin's  back  by  bid- 
ding her  say  over  some  song  or  spell  which  I  have 
taught  her.  This  afternoon  while  we  waited  on  the 
lawn  and  her  little  voice  went  among  the  charmed 


THE   CUSTODIAN  311 

words,  something  happened  which  surely  must  have 
been  due  to  a  prank  of  the  dolphin.  For  when  she 
had  taken  an  accurate  way  to  the  last  stanza  of 
"  Lucy,"  Little  Child  soberly  concluded  :  — 

"  'She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her   grave,  and  what's 
The  difference  to  me  !'  " 

But,  even  so,  it  was  charming  to  have  had  the 
quiet  metre  present. 

I  hope  that  there  is  no  one  who  has  not  sometime 
been  in  a  company  on  which  he  has  looked  and 
looked  with  something  living  in  his  eyes  ;  on  a  com- 
pany all  of  whom  he  holds  in  some  degree  of  tender- 
ness. It  was  so  that  I  looked  this  afternoon  on  those 
who  came  across  the  lawn  in  the  pleasant  five  o'clock 
sun,  and  I  looked  with  a  difference  from  my  manner 
of  looking  on  that  evening  of  my  visit  to  the  village, 
when  I  first  saw  these,  my  neighbours.  Then  I  saw 
them  with  delight ;  now  I  see  them  with  delight-and- 
that-difference ;  and  though  that  difference  is,  so  to 
say,  partly  in  my  throat,  yet  it  is  chiefly  deep  in  my 
understanding.  There  came  my  Mis'  Amanda  Top- 
lady,  with  her  great  green  umbrella,  which  she  carries 
summer  and  winter ;  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  with 
the  full-blooming  stalk  of  her  tuberose  pinned  on 
her  left  shoulder;  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame- 
Bliss  in  the  pink  nun's  veiling  of  the  Post-office  hall 


3i2        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

supper ;  and  my  neighbour,  who  had  consented  to 
come,  with:  "  I  don  no  as  that  little  thing  would 
want  I  should  stay  home.  Oh,  but  do  you  know, 
that's  the  worst  —  knowin'  that  the  little  thing  never 
saw  me  and  can't  think  about  me  at  all ! "  And 
there  came  also  those  of  whom  it  chances  that  this 
summer  I  have  seen  less  than  I  should  have  wished : 
the  Liberty  sisters,  in  checked  print.  "  It  don't  seem 
so  much  of  a  jump  out  of  mournin'  into  wash  goods 
as  it  does  into  real  dress-up  cloth,"  gentle  Miss  Lucy 
says.  And  Abigail  Arnold,  of  the  Home  Bakery, 
who  sent  a  great  sugared  cake  for  to-day's  occasion. 
"  Birthday  cakes  is  correct,"  she  observed,  "  an'  wed- 
din'  cake  is  correct.  Why  ain't  engagement  cakes 
correct  —  especially  when  folks  get  along  without  the 
ring?  I  donno.  I  always  think  doin'  for  folks  is 
correct,  whether  it's  the  style  or  whether  it  ain't." 
And  Mis'  Photographer  Sturgis,  with  a  new  and  up- 
braiding baby ;  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  in  "  new 
black,  but  not  true  mournin'  now,  an'  anyway  lit  up 
by  pearl  buttons  an'  a  lace  handkerchief  an'  plenty 
o'  scent."  And  Mis'  "Mayor"  Uppers  who,  the 
"  mayor  "  not  returning  to  his  home  and  the  tickets 
for  the  parlour  clock  having  all  been  sold,  to-day 
began  offering  for  sale  tickets  on  the  "  parlour  c  suit/ 
brocade'  silk,  each  o'  the  four  pieces  a  differ'nt  colour 
and  all  as  bright  as  new-in-the-store."  And  though 
we  all  understood  what  she  was  doing  and  she  knew 


THE   CUSTODIAN  313 

that  we  all  knew,  she  yet  drew  us  aside,  one  after 
another,  to  offer  the  tickets  for  sale  privately,  and 
we  slipped  the  money  to  her  beneath  our  handker- 
chiefs or  our  fans  or  our  sewing. 

We  all  had  our  sewing  —  even  I  have  become 
pleasantly  contaminated  and  have  once  or  twice  es- 
sayed eyelets.  Though  there  was  but  an  hour  to 
elapse  before  supper-time  and  the  arrival  of  the  "  men- 
folks,"  we  settled  ourselves  about  the  green,  making 
scallops  on  towels,  or  tatting  for  sheet  hems,  or 
crocheted  strips  for  the  hems  of  pillow-slips.  Mis' 
Sykes  had,  as  she  almost  always  does  have,  new  work 
which  no  one  had  ever  seen  before,  and  new  work  is 
accounted  of  almost  as  much  interest  as  a  new  waist 
and  is  kept  for  a  surprise,  as  a  new  waist  should  be 
kept.  Little  Child,  too,  had  her  sewing ;  she  was 
buttonhole-stitching  a  wash-cloth  and  talking  like  a 
little  old  woman.  I  think  that  the  little  elf  children 
like  best  to  pretend  in  this  way,  as  regular,  arrant 
witches  feign  old  womanhood. 

"Aunt  Effie  is  sick,"  Little  Child  was  telling 
Mis'  Toplady ;  "  she  is  sick  from  her  hair  to  her 
slippers." 

I  had  a  plan  for  Little  Child  and  for  us  all ;  that 
after  supper  she  should  have  leaves  in  her  hair  and 
on  her  shoulders  and  should  dance  on  the  sing- 
ing stone  in  the  river.  And  Miggy,  whose  shy  in- 
dependence is  now  become  all  shyness,  was  in  the 


3H        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

house,  weaving  the  leaves,  and  had  not  yet  appeared 
at  her  party  at  all. 

Then  one  of  those  charming  things  happened 
which  surely  have  a  kind  of  life  of  their  own  and 
wake  the  hour  to  singing,  as  if  an  event  were  a  river 
stone,  and  more,  round  which  all  manner  of  faint 
music  may  be  set  stirring. 

"  Havin'  a  party  when  I  ain't  lookin' ! "  cried 
somebody.  "  My,  my.  I  don't  b'lieve  a  word  of 
what's  name  —  this  evolution  business.  I  bet  you 
anything  heaven  is  just  gettiri  back" 
"  And  there  was  Calliope,  in  her  round  straw  hat 
and  tan  ulster,  who  in  response  to  my  card  had 
hastened  her  imminent  return. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  when  we  had  greeted  her  and 
put  her  in  a  chair  under  the  mulberry  tree,  "  my  re- 
lation got  well.  At  least,  she  ain't  sick  enough  to  be 
cross,  so  'most  anybody  could  take  care  of  her  now." 

Calliope  laughed  and  leaned  back  and  shut  her 
eyes. 

"  Land,  land,"  she  said,  "  I  got  so  much  to  tell 
you  about  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  It's  all 
about  one  thing,  too  —  somethin'  I've  found  out." 

Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  drew  a  great  breath  and 
let  fall  her  work  and  looked  round  at  us  all. 

"Goodness,"  she  said,  "ain't  it  comfortable  — 
us  all  settin'  here  together,  nobody's  leg  broke, 
nobody's  house  on  fire,  nor  none  of  us  dead?" 


THE   CUSTODIAN  315 

" c  Us  all  settin'  here  together/  '  Calliope  re- 
peated, suddenly  grave  amid  our  laughter,  "  that's 
part  of  what  I'm  comin'  to.  I  wonder,"  she  said  to 
us,  "  how  you  folks  have  always  thought  of  the 
City  ?  Up  till  I  went  there  to  stay  this  while  I 
always  thought  of  it  as  —  well,  as  the  City  an'  not 
so  much  as  folks  at  all.  The  City  always  meant  to 
me  big  crowds  on  the  streets  —  hurryin',  hurryin', 
eatin',  eatin',  and  not  payin'  much  attention  to  any- 
thing. One  whole  batch  of  'erri  I  knew  was  poor 
an'  lookin'  in  bakery  windows.  One  whole  batch 
of  'em  I  knew  was  rich  an'  sayin'  there  has  to  be  these 
distinctions.  And  some  more  I  knew  was  good  — 
I  always  see  'em,  like  a  pretty  lady,  stoopin'  over, 
givin'.  And  some  more  I  knew  was  wicked  an' 
I  always  thought  of  them  climbin'  in  windows. 
And  then  there  was  the  little  bit  o'  batch  that 
knows  the  things  I  want  to  know  an'  talks  like  I'd 
like  to  talk  an'  that  I'd  wanted  an'  wanted  to  go  up 
to  the  City  an'  get  with. 

"Well,  then  I  went.  An'  the  first  thing,  I  see  my 
relative  wa'n't  rich  nor  poor  nor  bad  nor  good  nor 
-  the  way  I  mean.  Nor  her  friends  that  come  to 
see  her,  they  wan't  either.  The  ones  I  took  for 
rich  talked  economy,  an'  the  ones  I  thought  was 
poor  spent  money,  an'  the  good  ones  gossiped,  an' 
they  all  jabbered  about  music  and  pictures  that  I 
thought  you  couldn't  talk  about  unless  you  knew 


3i6        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

the  'way-inside-o'-things,  like  they  didn't  know. 
The  kinds  seemed  all  mixed  up,  and  all  of 'em  far 
away  an*  formal,  like — oh,  like  the  books  in  a 
library  when  you  can't  think  up  one  to  draw  out. 
I  couldn't  seem  to  get  near  to  anything. 

"  Then  one  night  I  done  what  I'd  always  wanted 
to  do.  I  took  two  dollars  an'  went  to  the  theatre 
alone  an'  got  me  a  seat.  I  put  on  the  best  I  had,  an* 
still  I  didn't  feel  like  I  was  one  of  'em,  nor  one  of 
much  of  anybody.  The  folks  on  the  car  wasn't  the 
way  I  meant,  an'  I  felt  mad  at  'em  for  bein'  differ' nt. 
There  was  a  smilin'  young  fellow,  all  dressed  black 
an'  expensive,  an'  I  thought :  c  Put  you  side  of  Peter 
Gary  an'  there  wouldn't  be  anybody  there  but  Peter.' 
And  when  I  got  inside  the  theatre,  it  was  just  the 
same  :  one  awful  collection  of  dressed-up  hair  an' 
dressed-down  backs  an'  everybody  smilin'  at  some- 
body that  wasn't  me  and  all  seemin'  so  sure  of 
themselves.  Specially  the  woman  in  front  of  me, 
but  I  guess  it  always  is  specially  the  woman  in 
front  of  you.  She  was  flammed  out  abundant. 
She  had  trimmin's  in  unexpected  places,  an'  a  good 
many  colours  took  to  do  it,  an'  a  cute  little  chatter  to 
match.  It  come  to  me  that  she  was  more  than 
different  from  me :  she  was  the  otherest  a  person 
can  be.  An'  I  felt  glad  when  the  curtain  went  up. 

"  Well,  sir,"  Calliope  said,  "  it  was  a  silly  little 
play  —  all  about  nothin'  that  you  could  lay  much 


THE   CUSTODIAN  317 

speech  to.  But  oh,  they  was  somethin'  in  it  that 
made  you  get  down  on  your  hands  and  knees  in 
your  own  heart  and  look  around  in  it,  and  look. 
They  was  an  old  lady  and  a  young  mother  and  a 
child  and  a  man  and  a  girl  —  well,  that  don't  sound 
like  much  special,  does  it  ?  And  that's  just  it :  it 
wasn't  much  special,  but  yet  it  was  all  of  everything. 
It  made  'em  laugh,  it  made  'em  cry,  it  made  me 
laugh  and  cry  till  I  was  ashamed  and  glad  and 
grateful.  And  when  the  lights  come  up  at  the  end, 
I  felt  like  I  was  kind  of  the  mother  to  everything, 
an'  I  wanted  to  pick  it  up  an'  carry  it  off  an'  keep 
care  of  it.  And  it  come  over  me  all  of  a  sudden 
how  the  old  lady  and  the  young  mother  an'  man 
an'  girl,  man  an'  girl,  man  an  girl  was  right  there  in 
the  theatre,  near  me,  over  an'  over  again ;  an'  there 
I'd  been  feelin'  mad  at  'em  for  seemin'  far  off.  But 
they  wasn't  far  off.  They'd  been  laughin'  and 
cryin',  too,  an'  they  knew,  just  like  I  knew,  what 
was  what  in  the  world.  My,  my.  If  it'd  been 
Friendship  I'd  have  gone  from  house  to  house  all 
the  way  home,  shakin'  hands.  An'  as  it  was,  I  just 
had  to  speak  to  somebody.  An'  just  then  I  see  the 
flammed-out  woman  in  front  of  me,  that  her  collar 
had  come  open  a  little  wee  bit  up  top  —  not  to 
notice  even,  but  it  give  me  an  excuse.  And  I 
leaned  right  over  to  her  and  I  says  with  all  the 
sympathy  in  me  :  — 


318        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

" c  Ma'am,  your  neck  is  peepinY 

"  She  looked  around  surprised  and  then  she 
smiled  —  smiled  'most  into  laughin'.  And  she 
thanked  me  sweet  as  a  friend  an*  nodded  with  it,  an* 
I  thought :  £  Why,  my  land,  you  may  have  a  baby 
home/  I  never  had  thought  of  that.  An'  then  I 
begun  lookin'  at  folks  an'  lookin'.  An'  movin'  up 
the  aisles,  there  wasn't  just  a  theatre-lettin'-out. 
They  was  folks.  And  all  over  each  one  was  the 
good  little  things  they'd  begun  rememberin'  now 
that  the  play  was  over,  or  the  hurt  things  that  had 
come  back  onto  'em  again.  .  .  .  An'  out  on  the 
street  it  was  the  same.  The  folks  had  all  got  alive 
and  was  waitin'  for  me  to  feel  friendly  to  'em. 
Friendly.  The  young  fellows  in  the  cars  was  lovers, 
just  like  Peter.  An'  everybody  was  just  like  me, 
or  anyhow  more  alike  than  differ'nt ;  and  just  like 
Friendship,  only  mebbe  pronouncin'  their  words 
some  differ'nt  an'  knowin'  more  kinds  of  things  to 
eat.  It  seems  to  me  now  I  could  go  anywhere  an' 
find  folks  to  be  nice  to.  I  don't  love  Friendship 
Village  any  the  less,  but  I  love  more  things  the 
same  way.  Everything,  'most.  An*  I  tell  you  I'm 
glad  I  didn't  die  before  I  found  it  out  —  that  we're 
all  one  batch.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean  —  deep 
down  inside  what  I  say?  "  Calliope  cried.  "Does  it 
sound  like  anything  to  you  ? " 

To  whom  should  it  sound  like  "anything"  if 
not  to  us  of  Friendship  Village  ?  We  know. 


THE   CUSTODIAN  319 

"  Honestly,"  said  that  great  Mis'  Amanda  Top- 
lady,  trying  to  wipe  her  eyes  on  her  crochet  work, 
"  Whoever  God  is,  I  don't  believe  He  wants  to  keep 
it  a  secret.  He's  always  'most  lettin'  us  know.  I 
'most  knew  Who  He  is  right  then,  while  Calliope 
was  talkin'." 

"  I  'most  knew  Who  He  is  right  then,  while 
Calliope  was  talkin'."  ...  I  said  the  words  over 
while  the  men  crossed  the  lawn,  all  arriving  together 
in  order  to  lighten  the  trial  of  guesthood:  Dear 
Doctor  June,  little  Timothy  Toplady,  Eppleby 
Holcomb,  Postmaster  Sykes,  Photographer  Jimmie 
Sturgis,  Peter,  and  Timothy,  Jr.,  and  the  others. 
Liva  Vesey  was  already  in  the  kitchen  with  Miggy 
and  Elfa,  and  I  knew  that,  somewhere  invisible, 
Nicholas  Moor  was  hovering,  waiting  to  help  dish 
the  ice-cream.  When  the  little  tables,  each  with 
its  bright,  strewn  nasturtiums,  were  set  about  the 
lawn,  Miggy  reluctantly  appeared  from  the  kitchen. 
She  was  in  the  white  frock  which  she  herself  had 
made,  and  she  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  new  Miggy, 
not  less  merry  or  less  elfin,  but  infinitely  more  hu- 
man. It  was  charming,  I  thought,  to  see  how  she 
and  Peter,  far  from  tensely  avoiding  each  other, 
went  straight  to  each  other's  side.  With  them  at 
table  were  Liva  and  Timothy,  Jr.,  now  meeting 
each  other's  eyes  as  simply  as  if  eyes  were  for  this 
purpose. 


32o        FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE   LOVE   STORIES 

"  I  'most  knew  Who  He  is  right  then,  while  Cal- 
liope was  talkin' "...  I  thought  again  as  we  stood 
in  our  places  and  Doctor  June  lifted  his  hands 
to  the  summer  sky  as  if  He  were  there,  too. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  bless  these  young  people 
who  are  going  to  belong  to  each  other  —  Thou 
knowest  their  names  and  so  do  we.  Bless  our  be- 
ing together  now  in  their  honour,  and  be  Thou  in 
our  midst.  And  bless  our  being  together  always. 
Amen." 

And  that  was  the  announcement  of  Miggy's  and 
Peter's  betrothal,  at  their  Engagement  Party. 

Little  Child,  who  was  sitting  beside  Calliope, 
leaned  toward  her. 

"  How  long  will  it  take  for  God  to  know,"  she 
asked,  "  after  Doctor  June  sent  it  up  ?  " 

Calliope  put  her  arm  about  her  and  told  her. 

"  Then  did  He  get  here  since  Doctor  June  in- 
vited Him?"  Little  Child  asked. 

"  You  think,  'way  deep  inside  your  head,  an*  see 
if  He  isn't  here,"  I  heard  Calliope  say. 

Little  Child  shut  her  eyes  tightly,  and  though 
she  did  open  them  briefly  to  see  what  was  on  the 
plate  which*  they  set  before  her,  I  think  that  she 
found  the  truth. 

"  I  'most  know,"  she  said  presently.  cc  Pretty  near 
I  know  He  is.  I  guess  I'm  too  little  to  be  sure 
nor  certain.  When  I'm  big  will  I  know  sure  ?  " 


THE    CUSTODIAN  321 

Yes,"  Calliope  answered,    "  then   you'll  know 


sure." 


"  I  'most  knew  Who  He  is  while  Calliope  was 
talkin' "...  I  said  over  once  more.  And  sud- 
denly in  the  words  and  in  the  homely  talk  and  in 
the  happy  comradeship  I  think  that  I  slipped  be- 
tween the  seeing  and  the  knowing,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment stood  very  near  to  the  Custodian  —  Himself. 
The  Custodian  Who  is  in  us  all,  Who  speaks,  now 
as  you,  now  as  I,  most  clearly  in  our  human  fellow- 
ship, in  our  widest  kinship,  in  the  universal  together- 
ness. Truly,  it  is  not  as  my  neighbour  once  said, 
for  I  think  that  God  has  many  and  many  to 
"  neighbour  with,"  if  only  we  would  be  neighbours. 

Presently,  as  if  it  knew,  that  it  belonged  there, 
the  sunset  came,  a  thing  of  wings  and  doors  ajar. 
Then  Miggy  fastened  the  leaves  in  Little  Child's 
hair  and  led  her  down  to  dance  on  the  broad,  flat 
stone  which  is  an  instrument  of  music.  Above  the 
friendly  murmur  of  the  shallows  the  little  elf  child 
seemed  beckoning  to  us  others  of  the  human  voices 
on  the  shore.  And  in  that  fair  light  it  was  as  if 
the  river  were  some  clear  highway,  leading  from 
Friendship  Village  to  Splendour  Town,  where  to- 
gether we  might  all  find  our  way. 


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